.*  FROM 

m.  D.  feO  WER’S 

BOOK,  STATIONERY  S VARIETY 
STORK, 

No.  ,220  Main  Street, 

NORRISTOWN. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/flowersfossilsotOOstay 


FLOWERS  AND  FOSSILS 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 


JOHN  K.  STAYMAN, 

PROFESSOR  OF  ANCIENT  LANGUAGES  AND  CLASSICAL  LITERATURE 
IN  DICKINSON  COLLEGE. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CLAXTON,  REMSEN  & HAFFELFINGER, 

819  and  821  Market  Street. 

1870. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 
CLAXTON,  REMSEN  & HAFFELFINGER, 

In  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  in 
and  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  J.  FAGAN  & SON. 


PRINTED  BY  MOORE  BROS. 


OrJi/HJiA/Jl  <4  I I l utt(s  y°  41 


PRELUDE. 


8U 


<=f 

r* 

V- 


"V/TY  soul,  attendant  to  the  echoing  Voices 
-JX  rphat  fill  the  mighty  Past, 

Bows  down  and  learns  and  worships  and  rejoices, 
In  Time’s  cathedral  vast. 


I hear  the  music  of  the  ancient  Sages 
Blown  from  Earth’s  early  morn ; 

I hear  prelusive  murmurs  of  the  Ages 
That  are,  as  yet,  unborn. 

And  as,  in  the  dim  aisles,  sounds  soft  and  oral 
Mingle  and  go  and  come, 

With  reverent  awe,  awhile,  at  the  great  choral, 
My  lips  are  stricken  dumb. 


But  soon,  as  with  a kindred  elevation, 

I rise  and  float  along: 

Listening,  I catch  the  rapturous  inspiration, 
And  join  the  swelling  song. 

iii 


remote  storage 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

FLOWERS  AND  FOSSILS 11 

THE  THREE  GREETINGS 15 

SOUNDS  BY  THE  SEA 17 

WHEN  MAY  UNCLASPS 19 

SONG  OF  THE  WIND  . 21 

METAMORPHOSIS 25 

THE  WEDDING-DAY 27 

ENDURANCE 30 

WORDS  BY  THE  WAY 32 

RECURRENCE 40 

BOAT-SONG  . 44 

LET  ME  DOUBT 40 

MY  CALENDARS 47 

THE  IDEAL 51 

TO  THE  BEE 53 

MY  SAINT 56 

ARCADY 57 

NEVERMORE 69 

THE  THREE  PARTINGS 70 

ALWAYS  THE  ROSE 71 

THIS  WORLD  IS  ALL  TOO  FAIR 72 

AUTUMNAL 73 

TWO  QUESTIONS 76 

73 


OUTSIDE  THE  CATHEDRAL 

1* 


V 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A READING-  FROM  THE  ROCKS 79 

TO  THE  BLUEBIRD 96 

THE  OLD  MAN’S  SONG . . • . 99  ' 

MY  VINE  . 101 

BEAUTY 102 

A MEDITATION 103 

LOVE  DOTH  BEAUTIFY  THE  DAY 107 

BLOOM  OUT,  FLOWERS  108 

DEATH 110 

THE  MIRACLE 116 

OUR  KNOWLEDGE  ALL  IS  GIRT  ABOUT .119 

A MIST  OF  BUDS 121 

DUTY 12£’ 

SONG  OF  THE  WATER 124 

TO  THE  NIGHT-BLOOMING  CEREUS  . . . . . .132 

TWO  PICTURES 134 

use 136 

TIME,  THAT  SHAPED  THE  SWELLING  BUDS  ....  143 

WORDS  FOR  THE  HEART % . .145 

GOD 147 

DE  PROFUNDIS 149 

SONG  OF  THE  ROSE 151 

THE  MILL-STREAM 154 

HEAT 158 

THE  CLOWN’S  SONG 160 

I WALK  THE  GARDEN  WHEN  THE  NIGHT 162 

TOUCH 164 

TO  THE  SNOW-BIRD 167 

CEASE,  FOOLISH  HEART 170 

PRETTY  VIOLETS • 172 

THE  POET 174 

SHOW  ME  DEATH 

A THOUGHT  FOR  CHRISTMAS 


■ CONTENTS . vii 

PAGE 

THE  HERBARIUM 194 

FROM  THE  KING  TO  THE  CLOWN 195 

PROVIDENT 196 

ELIXIR  VITA3 198 

THE  CLOUD 200 

COMPENSATION  . . 201 

THEN  BID  ME  SING  NO  MORE 203 

BEFORE  THE  AUTUMN  DAYS  ARE  GONE 205 

TO  THE  HUMMING-BIRD 211 

THE  POPPY 213 

WHO  DID  WIN  THE  POET'S  PRAISE? 214 

SEEDS  . 216 

FROM  DAWN  TO  DUSK  223 

OWNERSHIP 225 

UNTO  THE  HOURS 230 

ASPIRATION • 231 

ONWARD  . . 233 

PALEONTOLOGICAL 235 

COME,  FADING  LIGHT 239 

THE  PORCELAIN  VASE 240 

CONFESSION 241 

A SONG  OF  SPRING 244 

GUIDANCE 247 

ON  VIEWING  A MUMMY 249 

THE  SUMMER  IS  OVER 251 

BENEATH  THE  STEEPLE’S  DIZZY  HEIGHT 252 

NAUGHT  RESTS  AS  IN  AN  END 254 

THE  ROSE-BUD 255 

SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES 257 

THE  PACHA  OF  THREE  TAILS 274 

GO,  HAPPY  ARTIST 275 

ALTHOUGH  NO  ACT 276 

PATIENCE 277 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

VAIN  IS  THE  GLORY 278 

COMFORT 279 

SONG  OF  THE  SUNBEAM 280* 

SHAKESPEARE 284 

IF  ANY  SONG 322 


FLOWERS  AND  FOSSILS. 


FLOWERS  AND  FOSSILS. 


TTTE  waken  suddenly  from  out  the  night, 

T Into  the  dawn  and  glory  of  a light 
That  almost  blinds  us.  Sun  and  star  and  cloud 
Fill  heaven’s  blue  arch  with  wonder.  We  are  bowed 
In  mute  amazement,  not  unmixed  with  fear, 

At  the  strange  beauty  of  the  shifting  show. 

Our  breath  is  hushed  when  the  loud  thunders  go 
Crashing  above  us ; and  we  straightway  hear 
The  pattering  music  of  the  gentle  rain. 

A mote  gleams  in  the  sunshine;  and  again 
A world  is  dwarfed  down  to  a glimmering  point 
By  depths  of  space.  Our  life  seems  out  of  joint 
With  the  great  realms  and  the  unending  days 
That  gird  us  round.  We  catch  a passing  gleam 
Of  the  old  brightness.  Foot-prints  of.  the  ways 
Of  the  everlasting  Ages  sometimes  seem 


12 


FLOWERS  AND  FOSSILS. 


To  cross  our  little  goings;  and  we  find 
God  lettering  his  Law  upon  the  stone. 

The  perished  leaf  has  left  its  trace  behind 
In  rock  and  hill-side.  Scarp  and  cliff  make  known 
The  form  and  freshness  of  an  early  world 
Now  done  in  fossils.  Life  that  once  lay  curled 
In  bud  close-clasped,  or  sunned  its  growing  grace 
In  blossom  but  half-opened,  shows  the  arrest 
Wrought  by  the  mighty  forces  that  embrace 
Its  finer  process.  Here  the  shape  is  pressed 
Into  the  rock,  which  marks  each  little  vein 
That  pulsed  to  olden  sunshine.  Look  again, 

And  lo,  from  out  the  spot  a spire  upsprings, 

And  feeds  its  rootlets  in  the  early  print 
Of  by-gone  beauty. 

Is  not  this  a hint 

Of  the  world's  course  in  countless  other  things, — 
Thought,  word,  belief,  acts,  institutions,  laws, 

And  men,  and  nations  ? From  a common  cause 
All  lives  and  changes,  grows  and  blooms  and  dies, 

And  hath  its  burial  and  rest  awhile, 

Only  to  wait  the  ages  and  arise 
In  other  fashion  and  with  sweeter  smile 
Toward  higher  office.  Naught  that  once  has  been, 


FLOWERS  AND  FOSSILS. 


13 


Can  wholly  perish ; but  must  leave  a mark, 
Though  hidden  for  long  centuries  in  the  dark, 
That  shall  at  last  be  shone  upon  and  seen. 

The  Present  shows  a fairer,  fresher  green, 

For  all  the  brown  dust  of  the  buried  Past. 

The  soil,  wherein  the  floweret  lives  and  grows, 

Is  but  a fossil,  crushed,  and  blent,  and  vast, 

Of  nameless  forms  and  forces.  In  the  rose 
That  shall  to-morrow  flush  the  Summer  dawn, 

The  mould  revives,  and  shines  more  rich  and  rare 
Than  all  the  earlier  glory  it  put  on, 

In  other  rounds  of  being.  See  how  fair 
The  violet’s  grace,  the  lily’s  snowy  cup, 

That  shape  themselves  from  darkness  and  decay 
Into  the  light,  and  break  the  sunshine  up 
To  play  of  color. 

This  is  Nature’s  wTay 

With  the  vast  world.  For  more  than  side  by  side 
The  flower  and  fossil  stand.  They  are  allied 
By  living  tie.  They  blend  and  interfuse, 

And  so  become  one  life.  The  light  imbues 
The  soil  with  heavenly  radiance,  through  the  seed 
And  growing  germ  which  it  doth  hold  and  feed. 
Thus  all  is  blent:  and  who  shall  truly  say 
2 


14 


FLOWERS  AND  FOSSILS. 


What  thing  is  old  and  wholly  past  away, 

Within  the  round  of  birth  and  growth  and  death, 
Swift  change  or  slow  transition?  See  the  Law 
That  moves  and  quickens  all,  as  with  the  breath 
Of  the  Eternal!  Though  the  days  may  draw 
To  dim  conclusion;  and  the  tireless  sun 
May  wake  the  East,  and  climb  awhile,  and  fall 
To  dusk  and  silence;  and  the  years  may  run 
The  circle  of  the  seasons;  yet  through  all 
This  night,  sleep,  winter,  change,  and  dust, 

Life  finds  renewal,  and  the  soul  a trust 
That  out  of  wreck  and  death  shall  only  come 
Shapes  that  are  fairer,  and  a sweeter  bloom. 


THE  THREE  GREETINGS . 


15 


THE  THREE  GREETINGS. 

XT OW  sweet  the  Morning  broke, 
What  time  I first  awoke ! 
Within  the  dawn  afar 
There  trembled  many  a star ; 

On  every  branch  and  spray 
A dewy  freshness  lay; 

And  from  each  bush  and  tree 
The  birds  did  sing  to  me : 

And  so,  when  I was  born, 

It  was  Good  Morn,  Good  Morn. 

Then  came  the  Hay,  and  brought 
His  busy,  wakeful  thought. 

The  only  star  that  shone 
Durst  not  be  gazed  upon ; 

The  dew-drops  all  were  fled 
To  the  far  heaven  o’er  head; 


THE  THREE  GREETINGS . 


And  in  each  tree  and  bush 
There  was  a pause  and  hush : 
And  so,  ’twas  hard  to  say, 

At  times,  Good  Day,  Good  Da}\ 

How  sweet  doth  Evening  close, 
Now  that  I seek  repose! 

Within  the  dusk  afar 
There  glimmers  many  a star; 
The  dews  begin  to  fall 
With  freshness  over  all; 

And  from  each  bush  and  tree 
Birds  sing  again  to  me: 

And  so,  to  Love,  Life,  Light, 

I say  Good  Night,  Good  Night. 


SOUNDS  BY  THE  SEA. 


17 


SOUNDS  BY  THE  SEA. 

A SI  look  upon  the  Ocean,  wandering  by  the  pebbly 
beach, 

How  the  breakers  moan  and  whiten  far  as  ear  and  eye 
can  reach, 

And  I listen  to  a music  that  my  soul  would  set  to  speech. 

Wherefore  this  unceasing  motion,  this  unresting  stir 
and  roar? 

Though  the  winds  have  lulled  to  silence  all  along  the 
shelving  shore, 

Will  the  tumult  ne’er  be  quiet,  and  the  trouble  never 
o’er? 

What  a secret  thou  enclosest  in  thine  ever-heaving 
breast, 

Of  the  ancient  Worlds  and  Ages,  of  the  wrecks  long 
sunk  to  rest, 

And  the  far-off  hope  and  promise  of  the  Islands  of  the 
Blest. 

2* 


B 


18 


SOUNDS  BY  THE  SEA. 


Standing  lost  in  awe  and  wonder,  whereunto  shall  I 
compare 

All  the  mystery  that  fills  me  as  I gaze  upon  thee  there, 

As  I hear  thy  thunder  sounding  through  the  azure 
depths  of  air? 

’T  is  the  rhythm  of  the  Endless,  as  thy  billows  fall  and 
climb ; 

’T  is  the  Boundless  touching  Limit  with  a melody 
sublime ; 

’T  is  the  pulse  of  the  Eternal,  throbbing  on  the  shores 
of  Time. 


WHEN  MAY  UNCLASPS . 


19 


WHEN  MAY  UNCLASPS. 

TSTHEN  May  unclasps  her  dainty  buds 

Laced  all  too  strait  for  Summer’s  show ; 

When  colors  freshen  in  the  woods, 

And  sweeter  still  the  roses  blow; 

When,  with  the  vine,  the  Heart  unfolds 
Its  tendrils  but  to  clasp  and  climb, 

And  what  the  happy  season  holds 
Moves  only  toward  a fuller  time; 

What  praise  have  we  to  smile  and  sing, 

And  keep  the  spirit  fair  and  sweet, 

Unknowing  yet  the  strength  and  sting 
Of  Jong  Regret  and  slow  Defeat? 

But  when  the  frosts  begin  to  fall, 

And  flowers  have  perished,  and  the  leaves 

Have  lost  their  summer  sheen,  and  all 
The  fields  are  gathered  into  sheaves; 


20 


WHEN  MAY  UNCLASPS. 


When  we  must  tread  the  downward  slope 
That  leads  away  from  Song  and  Spring, 
That  leads  away  from  Youth  and  Hope, 
Then  is  it,  O how  blest  a thing, 

If,  down  the  steep  that  Age  has  set, 

We  go  with  unreluctant  feet, 

And  Life  be  more  than  vain  regret, 

And  Love  still  keep  the  spirit  sweet. 


SONG  OF  THE  WIND. 


21 


SONG  OF  THE  WIND. 

T AM  lord  of  the  realms  of  the  air ; 

Many  a palace  of  cloud  I own ; 

Gold,  and  purple  and  azure,  there, 

Are  round  about  my  throne. 

Shrill  are  the  whistling  pipes  I blowr ; 
Rain  is  the  pattering  of  my  feet; 

Wrapped  in  a fleecy  robe  of  snow, 

I glide  o’er  ice  and  sleet. 

Cradled  within  the  floweret’s  cup, 
Sipping  the  odorous  drops  I lie, 

While,  to  the  swaying  dowTn  and  up, 
The  moments  swiftly  fly. 

Here,  on  the  streamlet’s  breast,  I rock 
The  lazy  lilies  and  flags  asleep; 

There,  I dash  with  a thunder-shock 
Across  the  billowy  deep. 


22 


SONG  OF  THE  WIND. 


May  is  out;  I open  the  buds, 

And  I snow  the  sward,  with  blossoms,  white 

Tis  November;  I strew  the  woods 
With  Autumn’s  leafy  blight. 

Now  the  darkening  fog  I drift, 

Blowing  the  blindness  whither  I list; 

Now,  from  the  upland  slope,  I lift 
The  trailing  skirts  of  mist. 

Now  I scatter  the  welcome  rain, 

Giving  the  cloudy  cisterns  out ; 

Now,  athirst,  I shrivel  the  plain 
And  drink  the  water-spout. 

Now  I wander  among  the  leaves, 

Far  in  the  gloom  of  the  woods;  and  now 

Fill  the  sails  of  the  ship  that  cleaves 
The  sea  with  arrowy  prow. 

Hush  ! the  gossamer  safely  swings, 

Though  it  is  beaded  thick  with  dew; 

Hark ! I snap  the  sinewy  strings 
Of  cord  and  cable  in  two. 


SONG  OF  THE  Mr I N D. 


23 


From  the  cliff,  by  the  mountain -glen, 
Over  I topple  the  rocks  that  frown ; 

Well  may  the  valleys  tremble,  when 
The  Avalanche  comes  down. 

On  the  Desert  I whirl  the  sand 

Round  and  round  to  a merry  tune  ; 

I catch  the  Caravan  in  my  hand, 

And  breathe  the  hot  Simoon. 

Look,  I flutter  each  garden -shoot, 
Daintily  kissing  the  white  and  red ; 

Look,  the  forest  is  out  by  the  root, 
For  the  Hurricane  hath  sped. 

Wild  on  the  Polar  Main  I rave, 
Crunching  the  jagged  crags  of  ice; 

Softly  I ripple  the  seas  that  lave 
The  Tropic  Isles  of  Spice. 

When  the  branch  of  the  pine  I shake, 
Mournfully  Ariel  doth  complain ; 

When  I rush  by  the  reedy  brake, 

Pan  plays  his  pipes  again. 


24 


SONG  OF  THE  WIND . 


Close  by  the  lattice  I whisper  low, 

Where  the  happy  lovers  are  met ; 

Round  the  howling  gables  I go, 

When  the  night  is  dark  and  wet. 

Thus  I travel  over  the  world, 

Now  in  the  blue,  and  now  on  the  green; 
The  oak  is  crashed,  and  the  cloud  is  curled, 
But  I am  all  unseen. 


METAMORPHOSIS. 


METAMORPHOSIS. 

T WOULD  be  the  slipper  put 
Upon  some  one’s  dainty  foot. 

I would  be  the  imprisoning  glove 
On  the  hand  of  her  I love. 

I would  be  the  zone  that’s  placed 
Round  about  a slender  waist. 

For  the  love  I bear  to  one,  ^ 

I’d  be  shoe  or  glove  or  zone. 

For  the  pretty  magic  in  it, 

I ’d  be  each  or  all  a minute. 

But  I scarce  would  dare  to  be 
The  locket  hid  where  none  may  see, 
3 


26 


METAMORPHOSIS. 

Lest  I fondly  might  prefer 
Always  to  be  heavened  there; 

And  it  should  amount  to  this, — 
Endless  metamorphosis. 


THE  WEDDING -HAY. 


27 


THE  WEDDING-DAY. 

TT7TTH  music,  garlands,  wine,  and  song, 

" " With  mirth  and  dance  and  festal  throng, 
With  all  that  ’s  sweet  and  fair  and  gay, 

We  celebrate  the  wedding-day. 

With  flowers  we  wreathe  the  shining  head, 

We  scatter  flowers  for  the  tread 
Of  her  whose  presence  lends  a grace 
To  all  the  movement  of  the  place. 

We  shower  hope  and  benison 
And  wish  and  kindly  thought  upon 
Herself,  the  occasion,  all  that  stands 
Related  to  her.  We  clasp  hands 

Of  dearest  greeting;  we  touch  lips 
For  long  adieus.  The  tear-drop  slips 
From  eyes  o’erjoyed;  and  fond  regret 
Mingles  and  makes  the  season  sweet. 


THE  WEDDING-DAY. 


On  golden  hinges,  to  the  Bride 
The  Future  swings  its  portals  wide. 

Soft,  roseate  clouds  are  in  the  sky  ; 

The  Past  in  blissful*  dreams  sweeps  by 

To  sound  of  Love,  to  whispered  Yow, 

To  hearts  that  have  discovered  how 
To  pulse  together,  and  to  flood 
Themselves  with  swifter,  happier  blood. 

The  Present  opens  up  a gleam 
Of  days  whose  coming  glories  seem 
The  brighter  as  she  nears  them.  Lo! 
What  else  but  Love  could  move  her  so? 

She  quits  her  Home;  she  quits  the  place 
Of  old  Affection  for  the  face 
Of  new-born,  passionate  Love,  for  one 
Whom  she  will  follow  on  and  on, 

To  the  world’s  end.  O trusting  Heart 
Of  Woman,  by  what  magic  art 
Can  Love  so  sway  thee,  and  make  bold 
To  venture  all  the  tried  and  old 


THE  WEDDING-DAY . 


29 


For  somewhat  new,  that  may  not  bear 
Familiar  use  and  constant  wear; 

For  somewhat  that  perchance  may  break 
Whatever  promise  Hope  could  make 

Of  Joy  and  Peace.  Yet  better  this 
Than  live  alone,  and  wholly  miss 
The  dear  illusion  that  can  fling 
Its  brightness  from  the  Dawn  and  Spring, 

To  Dusk  and  Autumn,  and  can  shed 
On  sunset- cloud,  the  gold  and  red 
That  gilded  all  the  happy  morn, 

When  Youth  and  Hope  and  Love  were  born. 
8 * 


30 


END  TJEANCE. 


ENDURANCE. 

TT T OULDST  thou  enjoy,  know  all  the  rare  and  sweet, 
" T Life’s  wonder  and  its  glory,  how  complete 
The  harmony  may  be  of  shaken  air, 

What  marvellous  birth  comes  into  being  where 

Art  paints  or  carves  or  builds?  Wouldst  thou  discern 

What  lies  beneath  the  surface,  nor  appears 

To  transient  glances?  Wouldst  thou  read  and  learn 

The  riddle  and  the  mystery  of  the  Years 

And  thrill  at  Beauty’s  slightest  touch  and  breath  ? 

Then  pain  and  sorrow  past  relief  of  tears, 

Foresight  of  wreck,  acquaintanceship  with  Death, 
Must  also  be  thy  heritage  and  dower. 

Some  loss  attends  on  every  several  gain, 

And  power  to  suffer  most  attends  the  power 
To  feel  the  subtlest  rapture.  Close  doth  pain 
Follow  on  pleasure,  shadow  at  once  and  foil 
To  light  and  life.  If  thou  wouldst  taste  of  rest, 
Measuring  its  depth  and  sweetness,  and  how  blest 
Its  full  release,  then  struggle  first  and  toil 
Till  weariness  prepare  thee  for  repdse. 


END  URANCE. 


31 


Not  happiest  of  the  sons  of  Earth  are  those 
Whose  works  awake  in  us  the  sudden  thrill, 

Whose  strength  outmatches  Death,  whose  iron  will 
No  shape  of  force  or  wrong  can  sway  or  break. 
Sickness  and  want,  the  dungeon  and  the  stake, 
Anguish  of  heart,  Earth  stript  of  all  disguise, 

Have  laid  Life’s  secret  bare  before  their  eyes, 

And  pain  endured  hath  made  them  strong  and  wise. 
Failure  and  coldness,  base  neglect  and  scorn 
Prepared  for  them  the  Triumph  that  hath  come 
From  men  afar  and  Ages  slowly  born. 

The  shout  of  praise,  the  cymbals  and  the  drum 
Greet  monarchs  while  they  live.  The  worthiest  men 
Are  laurelled  in  their  ashes.  Not  till  then 
Is  the  world  ripe  or  wise  enough  to  know 
The  worth  it  scorned,  or  met  with  many  a blow ; 

The  mockery  of  robe  and  thorny  crown, 

And  burden  of  the  Cross.  The  Best  come  down 
With  halo  of  the  Martyr  round  their  brow. 

Wouldst  thou  be  like  them?  Answer  whether  thou 
Hast  strength  to  bear  all  pain  as  well  as  bliss, 

To  endure  the  laugh,  the  scowl,  the  sneer,  the  hiss, 
And  meet  betrayal  masked  by  friendship’s  kiss. 


32 


WORDS  BY  THE  WAY. 


WORDS  BY  THE  WAY. 

mHE  little  that  we  clearly  know  but  makes  us  feel 
the  more 

Our  weakness,  want,  and  ignorance.  We  stand  upon 
the  shore, 

And  gaze  upon  the  boundless  sea,  and  hear  the 
breakers  roar. 

Girt  all  about  by  Mystery,  we  view  the  vast  profound  ; 

Above  are  heights ; below  are  depths ; within  us  and 
around 

Are  awful  gulfs  whose  sunless  gloom  no  lead  and  line 
may  sound. 

What  slowly  gathers  force  and  grows  to  beauty,  grace, 
and  power, 

Must  slowly  waste  and  fall  away,  or  perish  in  an  hour ; 

Destruction  waits  alike  the  end  of  tree  and  leaf  and 
flower. 


WORDS  BY  THE  WAY. 


33 


Uprooted  is  the  forest’s  strength  by  fierce  tornado 
caught, 

Too  swift  a breath  of  nursing  air  hath  sudden  ruin 
brought ; 

A moment’s  violence  undoes  what  countless  years  have 
wrought. 

Disease  and  Pain  lay  Beauty  waste,  and  sap  the  secret 
source 

Whence  sturdy  Might  derives  his  strength  and  fresh 
supplies  of  force; 

And  Age  to  second  Childhood  leads,  in  Nature’s 
circling  course. 

* 

What  subtle  pulses  stir  the  breath,  what  troubled  joy 
the  breast! 

Dim  intimations,  longings  vague,  brave  hopes,  and 
strange  unrest 

Keep  ebb  and  flow,  and  must  be  felt,  but  may  not  be 
exprest. 

For  far  within  is  that  which  lies  beyond  Expression’s 
reach, 


C 


34 


WORDS  BY  THE  WAY. 


Which  sculptor,  painter  only  hint,  and  poet  fails  to  teach, 

Though  dowered  with  deepest  - piercing  glance  and 
largest  gift  of  speech. 

In  Life’s  hot  fever,  fret,  and  toil,  its  pressure  and  its 
strain, 

The  sources  of  our  sweetest  joys  become  the  founts  of 
pain, 

And  thick  and  fast  fall  Sorrow’s  tears  like  drops  of 
Summer  rain. 

From  fairest  buds  of  Youth  and  Hope,  Time  gathers 
bitter  fruit; 

Across  the  darkness  of  our  sky  what  meteor- passions 
shoot ! 

And  in  the  vastness  of  the  Soul  what  discontent  strikes 
root ! 

Not  in  the  realms  of  Peace  and  Health  Man’s  nature 
all  is  shown ; 

The  very  grandeur  of  the  wrecks  with  which  his  path 
is  strewn, 

The  way-side  ruin,  ashes,  dust,  but  make  his  greatness 
known. 


W'ORDS  BY  THE  WAY. 


35 


No  state  may  hold  him ; ever  on  and  upward  he  must 
press, 

Though  aspiration  bring  him  sense  of  loss  and  weariness ; 

He  seeks  the  Infinite,  nor  may  content  himself  with  less. 

By  every  longing  of  the  soul,  by  glances  deep  and  high, 

By  questionings  that  pass  beyond  the  farthest  stretch  of 
sky, 

By  all  the  cravings  Earth  creates  yet  fails  to  satisfy, 

This  Life  shall  not  be  all  of  Life.  It  cannot,  cannot  be 

That  such  a transient  glimpse  of  God  is  all  that  we 
shall  see ; 

Eternity  shall  draw  the  veil,  at  last,  for  you  and  me. 

Else  would  the  worthiest  suffer  most  of  sorrow  and  defeat, 

The  largest  hope  would  only  lead  to  failure  most  com- 
plete, 

And  Love  were  but  a mockery,  and  Faith  a piteous 
cheat. 

Better  it  were,  if  this  were  all,  with  unastonished  eyes 

To  search  for  food,  and  eat,  and  sleep,  nor  think,  nor 
feel  surprise 

At  all  the  wondrous  legend  writ  on  earth  and  in  the  skies. 


36 


WORDS  BY  THE  WAY . 


Let  Patience  have  her  perfect  work.  Why  fret  against 
the  bars 

That  close  us  round,  till  life  is  naught  but  weariness 
and  scars ; 

The  prison  of  the  soul  e’en  now  is  overarched  by  stars. 

Blindness  would  follow  sudden  gaze  on  what  is  over- 
bright  ; 

Earth’s  clouds  and  shadows  best  befit  our  feebleness  of 
sight ; 

With  stronger  vision  there  shall  fall  a fuller,  clearer 
light. 

Let  what  is  given  thee  suffice,  nor  idly  crave  for  more ; 

A richer  gift  shall  follow  use  of  what  was  given 
before ; 

The  Future  hath  its  grand  reserves  and  largesses  in 
store. 

Repress  desire;  nor  haste  to  call  the  world  a paltry 
thing : 

To  gratify  thine  instant  wish  and  wild  imagining 

Would  bankrupt  all  the  varied  wealth  that  endless 
years  shall  bring. 


WORDS  BY  THE  WAY. 


37 


Use  well  the  portion  that  is  thine,  nor  care  for  large  or 
small, 

Then  shalt  thou  learn  this  olden  truth,  whatever  may 
befall, 

How  growth  is  more  than  great  estate,  and  half  is  more 
than  all. 

Life  is  a process ; forth  and  on  we  ever  press  and  tend, 

With  tranquil  flow  or  eddying  whirl  where  currents 
meet  and  blend ; 

To-day  we  use  as  helpful  means  * what  yesterday  was 
end. 

Life  is  a movement  by  a path  whose  goal  before  us  flies  ; 

We  climb  the  mountain,  and  around  a larger  landscape 
lies, 

And  in  the  boundless  blue  above  new  constellations  rise. 

What  though  the  motion  weary  us  and  shake  our  feeble 
breath, 

We  rest  as  pilgrims  by  the  way,  and  hear  a voice  which 
saith 

That  tarrying  long  were  risk  and  pain,  and  fixed  abode 
were  death. 


4 


38 


WORDS  BY  THE  WAY. 


If  darkness  fall  upon  our  path,  we  need  not  halt  nor 
grope ; 

Surmounting  what  withstood  our  step,  we  rise  to  larger 
scope ; 

The  very  things  withheld  become  the  ground  of  search 
and  hope. 

’T  is  not  in  starting-point,  nor  goal,  nor  trackless  sand 
between, 

But  in  the  journey’s  Discipline,  that  such  an  End  is  seen 

As  makes  the  desert  glad  with  palms,  and  fringes  it 
with  green. 

Though  hot  Simoon  with  stifling  blast  upon  our  head 
has  burst, 

To  wells  of  water  we  shall  come,  and  cool  our  parching 
thirst, 

And  rest  beneath  the  shade  of  trees  that  hidden  springs 
have  nursed. 

By  gift  and  generous  sacrifice  let  us  enrich  the. Soul; 

Thus  Selfishness  shall  die  away,  or  suffer  such  control 

That  Love  shall  find,  in  what  remains,  more  than  the 
hoarded  whole. 


WORDS  BY  THE  WAY. 


39 


We  wait  a moment  at  our  work ; Life  passes,  and  is  gone. 

Let  Duty  be  our  strength  and  guide  till  Death  shall 
lead  us  on, 

Then  o’er  the  dusk  of  Earth  and  Time  eternal  Light 
shall  dawn. 

Then  shall  we  read  the  lesson  plain  which  present 
Mysteries  shroud ; 

The  ministry  of  toil  and  pain,  of  darkness  and  of  cloud, 

The  gain  that  comes  of  earthly  loss,  the  strength  of 
spirit  bowed.  • 

No  crossed  affections,  unwise  wills,  shall  trouble  then 
our  peace ; 

All  thwart  of  purpose,  blight  of  hope,  all  sorrow,  then 
shall  cease, 

When  Time  has  wrought  his  Discipline,  and  Death  has 
brought  release. 


40 


RECURRENCE . 


RECURRENCE. 

fTSHE  seasons  touch  us.  Though  they  are  hut  brief, 
We  bud  and  blossom,  then  we  shed  the  leaf. 
Having  served  its  office,  Summer’s  fairest  show 
Drops  down  to  enrich  the  soil  from  which  we  grow. 
Thus  do  we  spread  and  flourish  all  the  more 
Because  of  timely  losses.  Let  the  frost 
Make  bare  the  branch,  its  life-sap  is  not  lost, 

But  draws  from  hidden  roots  a richer  store 
Where  leaves  have  fallen.  From  the  earthy  mould, 
In  which  the  sunken  rootlets  fix  their  hold, 

Each  twig  draws  greenness,  and  the  dying  gives 
Ministrant  forces  out  to  that  which  lives ; 

And  so  it  dies  not  wholly,  but  returns 
To  life  and  youth  by  service.  Thus  all  goes 
Around  the  circle  ; and  the  dead  leaf  burns 
Next  season  in  the  blossom,  and  it  throws 
The  strength  of  Death  into  the  living  germ, 

And  rounds  the  seed.  Where  shall  the  definite  term 


RECURRENCE. 


41 


That  limits  Life  be  drawn ; what  line  shall  fix 
Where  Life  and  Death  do  blend  and  intermix  ? 

The  kindliest  soil  from  which  the  seedlet  draw’s 
A nascent  life  is  made  of  death  and  wreck ; 

Bocks  worn  to  dust,  and  blown  by  the  shifting  flawTs 
Of  all  the  winds ; brown  leaves  that  once  did  deck 
The  greenest  Summers ; crumbling  trunks  that  stood 
How  long  in  state,  before  there  came  the  hour 
That  broke  their  strength,  and  shook  the  astonished 
wood 

With  the  loud  fall : such  wreck  of  life  hath  powrer 
To  hold  the  living,  and*  to  form  the  nest 
Wherein  a germinant  life  may  sweetly  rest 
And  shape  itself  to  beauty. 

In  the  dust 

Of  the  far  Centuries,  in  historic  mould, 

In  mound  and  ruin  of  the  dead  and  old, 

In  myth  and  fable  blown  by  the  veering  gust 
Hither  and  thither,  we  strike  root  and  grow, 

And  bring  again  the  wreck  that  sleeps  below 
To  light  and  comeliness.  The  soil  doth  stir 
With  life  and  sunshine  ; and  the  hours  confer 
Youth  on  the  Ages.  Day  goes  bravely  out, 


4* 


42 


RECURRENCE . 


And  dusk  is  followed  by  the  dewy  morn ; 

Somewhat  is  always  being  newly  born ; 

An  endless  childhood  lurks  and  plays  about 
The  shifting  wonder.  On  the  olden  bough 
Young  branches  push,  and  dainty  buds  even  now 
Do  swell  and  pout.  The  blossom  of  to-day 
Is  knit  to  the  rock  a thousand  years  away, 

By  the  deep  roots.  The  tale  of  life  is  told 
As  if  some  Eastern  parchment  were  unrolled 
To  countless  generations ; and  to  each 
It  opens  with  the  Once-upon-a-Time 
Of  the  old  Story.  After-years  may  reach 
A soberer  knowledge ; but  we  never  climb 
Out  of  the  realm  of  wonder,  and  the  reach 
Of  grand  surprises.  Let  us  therefore  be 
Unenvious  of  the  Constant,  which  we  see 
Writ  only  in  the  Law  that  governs  Change, 

And  fixes  paths  wherein  may  play  and  range 
All  forms  and  forces. 

What  though  Time  do  bring 
A little  dust,  a little  sad  regretting ; 

Crown  him  with  violets  of  the  early  Spring, 

Crown  him  with  leaves  rich  with  the  Autumnal  setting 


RECURRENCE. 


43 


Of  the  ripe  Year ; shower  him  with  April-bloom 
And  sweets  of  May ; crush  him  with  Summer  roses ; 
Drowse  him  with  poppy  and  the  faint  perfume 
Blown  from  the  honeyed  flowers  that  he  discloses ; 
Stain  him  all  purple  with  the  dye  of  grapes ; 

Pelt  him  with  mellow  apples ; let  him  know 
The  happy  juice  that  from  the  vat  escapes ; 

Whiten  his  beard  with  rime  and  drifted  snow ; 

Load  him  with  diamonds  cut  by  wintry  frost ; — 
Then  let  him  sleep,  in  some  wood-hollow  lost, 

Till  the  sun  rouses  him,  and  he  awakes 
To  hang  the  early  tassel  on  the  larch 
And  fringe  the  hedge-rows  and  the  shrubby  brakes, 
What  time  the  trumpet-blast  of  windy  March 
Blows  loud  for  all  the  sleepers  underground, 

And  seed  and  bulb  awake  to  the  echoing  sound. 


44 


BOA  T-SONG . 


BOAT-SONG. 

XilLOAT,  float,  my  little  Boat, 

The  waves  are  swiftly  flowing; 

They  bear  me  onward,  O so  fast, 

’Tis  folly  to  be  rowing; 

’Tis  madness  to  be  rowing. 

Furl,  furl  your  wings,  my  Sails, 

In  this  soft  Summer  weather; 

I fly  too  fleetly  when  the  winds 
And  waves  move  on  together; 

When  they  conspire  together. 

Hold,  hold,  my  Anchor  sure; 

I would  enjoy  one  minute 
That  blooming  bank  of  flowers,  and  rest 
Upon  the  haven  in  it; 

Best  on  the  calmness  in  it. 


BOA  T-SONO. 


45 


No,  no,  alas ! no  pause : 

The  winds  and  waves  defy  me; 

My  Anchor  drags,  and  I drift  on, 
And  the  steadfast  shore  slips  by  me ; 
The  envious  shore  slips  by  me. 


46 


LET  ME  DOUBT. 


LET  ME  DOUBT. 

T ET  me  doubt  the  shining  Sun, 
Because  the  night  has  come; 

Let  me  doubt  the  voice  of  Spring, 
When  Winter  lieth  dumb. 

Let  me  doubt  the  solid  Earth, 
Because  of  throbs  and  shocks; 

Let  me  doubt  the  flowing  Sea, 
When  glassed  among  the  rocks. 

Let  me  doubt  the  depths  of  Blue, 
Because  a cloud  is  there; 

Let  me  doubt,  when  silence  falls, 
The  many-sounding  Air. 

Let  me  doubt  the  heavenly  light, 
Air,  and  earth,  and  sky,  and  sea 

Only  let  me  never  doubt, 

My  Love,  my  Life,  of  thee. 


MY  CALENDARS . 


47 


MY  CALENDARS. 

TT  0 W the  moments  slip^  away  ! 

Now  ’t  is  dusk,  and  now  ’t  is  day. 
Now  I know  that  it  is  Spring, 

By  the  way  the  birds  do  sing ; 

All  the  air  being  sweetly  filled 
As  the  happy  couples  build. 

Now  I know  ’t  is  June  to  me, 

By  the  drowsy  hum  of  bee : 

Now  that  Autumn  doth  prevail, 

By  the  piping  of  the  quail. 

And  the  snow-bird  — silent  thing! 

Little  cause  hath  he  to  sing  — 

Flits  about  my  door,  and  shows 
Winter  here  with  frosts  and  snows : 
Shows  that  Winter  now  has  come, 
Striking  all  this  music  dumb, 

That  his  sullen  roar  may  be 
Requiem  and  minstrelsy 


48 


M Y CALENDARS. 


For  the  Seasons  that  are  fled, 

For  the  Year  that  now  lies  dead. 

How  the  moments  slip  away! 

Now  ’t  is  dusk,  and  now  ’t  is  day. 

By  the  buds  that  ’gin  to  swell, 

Spring  is  here,  I know  full  well. 

But  the  Year  is  scarce  begun, 

Ere  he  shakes  the  blossoms  down: 

And  the  quickly  ripening  fruit 
Tells  how  the  Summer’s  heat  doth  shoot 
Through  the  branches,  and  that  soon 
It  will  be  no  longer  June. 

Now  the  crimson  of  the  leaf 
Brings  to  mind  how  very  brief 
Summer  tarried,  and  that  now 
Autumn  comes  to  strip  the  bough. 

Look,  the  frosts  begin  to  fall; 

Soon  the  snow  will  cover  all : 

Through  the  branches  wild  and  bare, 
Wintry  winds  will  whistle  clear: 

Wintry  winds  now  whistle  loud 
% O’er  the  dead  Year  in  his  shroud. 


M Y CAL  END  AES. 


49 


How  the  moments  slip  away ! 

Now  ’t  is  dusk,  and  now  ’t  is  day. 

If,  in  turn,  I make  the  trial 
Of  a dainty-fashioned  dial, 

So  arranged,  of  bloom,  that  I 
Tell  the  changing  months  thereby, 
Marking  out  the  flight  of  hours 
By  the  winged  life  of  flowers, 

Time,  I find,  hath  no  more  stay, 

And  can  fly  as  swift  as  they. 

Scarce  the  violet  hath  blown, 

Ere  the  Spring  is  overflown; 

Scarce  the  rose  hath  blushed  in  pride, 
Ere  the  Summer  steps  aside  ; 

Scarce  the  poppy  shakes  his  head, 

Till  the  Autumn,  too,  hath  fled : 

And  the  absence  of  all  these, 

Drowsy  poppy,  rose,  heart’s-ease, 

Tells  me  Winter  comes  to  ‘show 
How  to  lay  all  beauty  low. 

How  the  moments  slip  away! 

Now  ’t  is  dusk,  and  'now  ’t  is  day. 

5 D 


50 


MY  CALENDARS . 


If  I try  the  World  Within, 

Flight  of  Time  shall  still  be  seen. 
By  the  stir  of  gentle  thoughts, 
Growth  of  sweet  forget-me-nots, 

I can  tell  that  Spring  is  here, 
Pretty  firstling  of  the  Year: 

By  the  fiery  glow  of  Love, 

Now  ’t  is  Summer  reigns  above. 

But  the  words  are  scarcely  said 
Till  I enter  Autumn’s  shade, 
Softened  light  and  purple  mist, 
Gold  and  blue  and  amethyst ; 
Season  when  the  too-full  heart 
Feels  how  soon  it  must  depart: 
While  it  counts  the  sweetness  o’er 
Of  the  Seasons  gone  before, 

Lo ! ’t  is  Winter ; Life  hath  fled, 
Hope,  Love,  Memory,  all  are  dead. 


THE  IDEAL , 


51 


THE  IDEAL. 

To  Mary  F.  Howell. 

~\\T E must  create  the  Beauty  that  we  see ; 

" " What  most  we  seek  for  is  the  thing  we  lose ; 

The  cloud  and  landscape  take,  at  last,  the  hues 

» 

Of  light  and  shade  within  us.  That  doth  flee 
And  pass  our  grasp,  which  most  the  soul  pursues. 
But  yet  capricious  Nature  is  so  kind, 

That  where  we  least  expected,  there  we  find 
Treasure  the  richest.  Bliss  conies  all  unsought 
That  would  not  be  o’ertaken,  nor  be  caught 
By  trap  or  stratagem.  Pursuit  is  more 
Than  the  possession,  if  we  therein  rest. 

For,  having  gained  the  Good,  if  then  the  Best 
Be  not  more  prized,  ’t  is  worse  than ’t  was  before 
We  reached  the  Good.  Our  gain  is  but  a loss. 
The  gold  encumbers  us  and  turns  to  dross, 

Hiding  its  brightness.  But  if  once  the  grace 
Of  the  Ideal  stir  us  to  the  chase. 


THE  IDEAL . 


And  its  transcendent  glory  shine  above 
Our  little  pathway,  even  then  doth  Love 
Make  sacred  every  footstep  of  the  way 
That  leads  us  ever  onward,  and  we  may 
Find  joy  and  comfort,  such  as  are  not  known 
To  those  whose  sunshine  only  ripens  hay, 
And  whom  the  Real  hardens  into  stone. 


TO  THE  BEE . 


53 


TO  THE  BEE. 

KEEN  hunter  for  tops  of  clover, 

^ Tumbling,  in  search  of  sweets,  over  and  over, 
Wandering  away  from  your  home  so  far, 

By  what  compass  or  guiding  star 
Track  you  the  pathless  air,  and  fly 
Straight  for  the  hive,  through  the  chartless  sky? 
Tell  me,  I pray  thee,  O cunning  bee, 

Where  have  you  studied  the  Buie  of  Three? 
Taught  in  what  school,  have  you  won  the  prize 
For  aptness  to  count  and  geometrize? 

How  have  you  learned,  with  such  precision, 
Method  and  skill  of  mathematician, 

Knowledge  of  hexagons,  planes,  and  edges, 

Angles,  and  pyramids,  and  wedges? 

Show  me  the  plummet  and  the  square, 

Trowel  and  hammer  you  hide  somewhere, 

And  tell  me  how  you  became  so  skilled 

To  plan  and  to  measure,  and  to  build? 

5 * 


54 


TO  THE  BEE. 


Prudent  and  sage  Economist, 

Shrewd  and  toiling  Capitalist, 

Laying  up  store  in  the  Summer  hours, 
Owning  shares  in  the  banks  of  flowers, 

And  hiving  the  golden  dividends 
For  the  time  when  honeyed  profit  ends ; 

How  have  you  come  to  be  so  wise, 

And  to  see  so  far  with  such  small  eyes  ? 
Keep  you  the  book-shelves  in  your  head, 

Or  where  are  the  books  that  you  have  read  ? 
Show  me  your  copy  of  Adam  Smith, 

And  lend  me  the  glass  to  read  it  with ; 

All  about  labor  and  banks  and  money, 
Waxen  thighs  and  flowers  and  honey. 

Show  me  your  treatise  on  government, 

Justice  Blackstone  or  Chancellor  Kent ; 

Show  me  your  law-books,  one  by  one, 

Your  learned  Coke-upon-Littleton, 

Codes  and  Statutes,  Decrees  of  Courts, 
Constitutions  and  Legal  Reports : 

For  most  of  all  do  I wish  to  know 
How  your  officers  come  and  go  ; 

How  you  council  and  legislate, 

In  shaping  the  grave  affairs  of  State. 


TO  THE  BEE. 


The  Poets  tell  me,  0 cunning  bee, 
Your  Commonwealth  is  a Monarchy, 

A type,  an  example,  a working-plan, 

A model  of  government  for  Man. 

But  place  you  ever  an  idle  drone 
Or  a fighting  hero  upon  the  throne  ? 

Is  not  the  Monarch  on  whom  you  wait 
The  parent  of  Colony  and  State? 

Are  your  placemen  a plundering  tribe? 
Clutch  your  judges  after  a bribe? 

Hum  the  louder,  within  your  halls, 
Busy  labors  or  wordy  brawls? 

The  drones,  lie  they  not  stiff'  and  dead, 
Ere  the  Autumnal  days  have  fled  ? 

This,  and  much  else,  I wish  to  know ; 
And  then  the  fanciful  Poet  may  show 
The  fitness  of  type  and  plan,  if  he  can, 
And  how  to  apply  this  model  to  Man. 


56 


M Y SA  INT . 


MY  SAINT. 


TVTO  fairer  form,  no  sweeter  face 

Hath  poet  dreamed  or  limner  painted 
No  heavenlier  shape  of  life  and  grace 
Hath  Love  portrayed  or  Worship  sainted. 


O she  is  fair,  surpassing  fair; 

The  very  light  that  falls  upon  her 
Makes  golden  halo  round  her  hair, 

And  smiles  and  glows  to  do  her  honor. 


The  sweetest  breaths  in  all  the  sky 
Quit  budding  bough  and  opening  blossom, 
To  syllable  her  softest  sigh, 

And  rest  in  rapture  on  'her  bosom. 

But  fairer  than  this  outward  show, 

The  soul  of  Love  that  dwrells  within  her  : 
Shine  golden  Light,  Winds  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me,  tell  me  how  to  win  her. 


ARCADY. 


o7 


ARCADY. 


THROM  the  busy,  crowded  street, 

■*-  And  the  dust  and  glare  and  heat 
Of  the  city,  let  me  fly 
To  the  embrace  of  Earth  and  Sky. 
From  the  imprisonment  of  walls, 

And  the  bondage  that  enthralls 


Sense  and  soul  to  tasteless  things, 

I,  to-day,  would  haste  with  wings. 
Trees  and  flowers  shall  be  my  books, 
I would  talk  with  babbling  brooks ; 
Where  the  leafy  shadows  dance 
I would  lap  me  in  romance; 

Quitting  all  that  wearies  me, 

The  woods  shall  be  my  Arcady. 

Many  a branch  shall  thatch  me  in 
With  its  coverture  of  green, 

And  the  mellow  light  shall  spread 
Through  the  arches  overhead, 


58 


ARC  AD  F. 


Which  the  growing  verdure  weaves 
Of  interlacing  limbs  and  leaves. 

There,  beneath  the  swaying  bough, 
Will  I cool  my  burning  brow, 

While  the  whispering  breeze  shall  tell 
Tales  of  sky  and  hill  and  dell ; 

How  it  caught  the  freshness  where 
Clouds  repose  in  depths  of  air; 

How  it  kissed  the  honeyed  lip 
Whence  the  bees  their  nectar  sip ; 
How  it  played  the  leaves  among, 
While  the  flowery  censers  swung, 
Scattering  thus  from  banks  of  bloom 
The  quintessence  of  perfume. 

Columbine  with  clustering  stalks, 
Bell-flower  nodding  o’er  the  rocks, 
Cowslip,  daisy,  violet; 

Blue  and  purple,  gold  and  jet, 

Colors  that  no  alchemy, 

With  its  curious  art,  could  dye; 
Shapes  that  never  chisel  could 
Cut  in  stone  or  carve  in  wood ; 

These  shall  All  my  gazing  sight 
With  insatiate  delight. 


ARCADY. 


59 


Birds  shall  flit  on  shining  wing 
Near  me,  and  alight  to  sing. 

There  from  out  the  throstle’s  throat 
I shall  hear  a various  note, 

And  the  cooing  dove  shall  be 
Musical  monotony. 

There  the  passing  bee  shall  hum, 
There  the  pheasant  beat  his  drum; 
Nature’s  orchestra  shall  there 
Stir  the  many-sounding  air 
With  a harmony  as  sweet 
As  the  entranced  ear  can  greet. 

Not  when  voice  and  instrument 
Are  in  swelling  chorus  blent, 

And  the  heaving  bellows  blow 
Sounds  from  organ  soft  and  low, 
Shall  there  such  a charm  beguile 
Me  as  in  the  leafy  aisle 
When  the  voice  of  music  floods 
The  cathedral  of  the  woods. 

Every  opening  of  the  green 
Shall  disclose  a different  scene 
In  the  landscape  that  around 
Circles  me  with  charmed  ground. 


60 


AH  CADY. 


Never  shall  the  canvas  glow 
With  so  exquisite  a show, 

Tints  and  groups  that  put  to  blush 
All  the  skill  of  painter’s  brush  : 

Here,  a charm  that  Claude  Lorraine 
Sought  to  reach,  but  sought  in  vain; 
There,  a savage  wild  that  throws  a 
Shadow  on  Salvator  Rosa. 

All  the  variable  grace, 

* Life  and  soul  of  nature’s  face, 

Change  of  thought  and  change  of  mood 
Shall  in  nature’s  self  be  viewed. 

Sky  and  stream  and  rock  and  tree, 
These  shall  be  my  gallery, 

Wherein  shall  be  keenlier  felt 
What,  by  turns,  can  fire  and  melt, 
Warmth  and  throb  of  Nature’s  heart, 
Than  in  the  galleries  of  Art. 

Neither  shall  the  pages  writ 
By  the  poet’s  subtle  wit 
Give  me  picturesque  ideal 
That  may  stand  beside  the  real. 

Can  words  paint  the  shapeless  shadows 
Slowly  sailing  o’er  the  meadows  ? 


A JR  CADY. 


61 


Can  they  tell  the  scent  of  clover, 

With  its  honey  brimming  over  ? 

Leaf  and  pebble,  flower  and  shell 
Show  what  letters  cannot  spell. 

All  that  fields  and  wild-woods  think 
May  not  be  expressed  in  ink  ; 

For  there  is  a hidden  reach, 

Depth  and  force  of  meaning,  which 
Vainly  poet  strives  to  catch ; 

Nature  is  his  over-match. 

Therefore  in  the  cool  recesses 
Of  the  woods,  will  I make  guesses 
At  the  bliss  of  the  First  Garden, 

At  the  Forest-joys  of  Arden, 

That  shall  nigher  reach  the  mark 
Than  my  thoughts  in  chamber  dark, 

While  with  rhythmic  flow  of  verses, 

Milton  Paradise  rehearses, 

Or  I read  the  Seven  Ages 

Sketched  on  Shakespeare’s  matchless  pages. 

That  which  scientific  skill, 

To  understand,  forsooth,  must  kill, 

And  painfully  anatomize, 

And  view  with  microscopic  eyes, 


6 


62 


ARC  AD  Y. 


I find  before  me  as  a Whole, 

A loving  presence  and  a Soul. 

Books  are  catalogues  of  parts, 

Heads  and  faces,  hands  and  hearts ; 
But  Nature  shows  the  integration 
Of  each  with  all  by  nice  relation. 
Thus  the  woods  shall  reinforce 
Wit  of  books,  scholastic  course, 

And  shall  show  me,  to  the  full, 

What  I learn,  by  hints,  at  school. 
There  the  floweret’s  tender  shoot 
Loves  to  nestle  at  the  foot 
Of  the  giant  growth  whose  form 
Shelters  it  from  sun  and  storm. 

There  the  vine,  with  airy  grace, 

Sends  forth  tendrils  to  embrace - 
Limbs  and  topmost  boughs  that  bear 
All  the  swelling  clusters  where 
They  may  feel  the  warmth,  and  show 
Lurking  wine  in  the  purple  glow. 
Thus  to  see  the  fragile  flower, 
Transient  beauty  of  an  hour, 

Bloom  beneath  the  friendly  strength 
That  outlasts  the  wasting  length 


ARC  A BY. 


63 

Of  the  long-drawn  centuries, 

In  the  sturdy  life  of  trees; 

Thus  to  see  the  slender  vine 
Climb  by  tendrils  which  entwine 
Round  about  a rugged  prop 
That  has  force  to  bear  it  up  ; 

Thus  to  see  the  great  and  small, 

Persistent  and  ephemeral, 

Growing,  blooming  side  by  side, 

Closely,  helpfully  allied, 

Is  a view  of  boughs  and  buds, 

That  can  make  the  ancient  woods 
Academic  grove  to  me, 

Full  of  sweet  philosophy. 

There  the  life,  which,  rooted  fast 
In  the  stronghold  of  the  Past, 

Can  withstand  the  stormiest  shocks 
From  its  fortress  in  the  rocks, 

Only  serves,  with  surer  force, 

Bud  and  leafy  bloom  to  nurse, 

And  to  cradle  in  the  winds 
What  the  hopeful  Present  finds, 

In  forming  seed  and  hardening  wood, 

Of  growth  perennially  renewed. 


64 


A It  CADY. 


So  shall  it  be  clearly  stated 
How  the  Seasons  are  related, 

How,  by  an  organic  tether, 

Old  and  young  are  bound  together ; 

Buds  that  ripen  into  fruits, 

Being  fed  by  deeply-sunken  roots, 

And  borne  aloft  to  feel  the  sun 
By  trunks  with  mossy  age  o’ergrown. 

And  that  I,  amid  the  Spring 
Of  life  and  joyous  blossoming, 

Amid  the  leafy  pride  and  pomp 
With  which  the  Summer  doth  encamp 
On  hill  and  plain,  may  still  remember 
How  the  year  hath  its  bleak  December ; 
How,  answering  to  this  warmth  and  breath, 
There  comes  the  cold  repose  of  death, 

The  woods  will  not  be  wholly  mute; 

And  hence  the  rustling,  underfoot, 

Of  the  sere  leaves,  shall  call  my  thought 
To  that  which  else  had  been  forgot. 
Cypress  shade  and  branch  of  yew 
Shall  suggest  the  mortal,  too 
Thus,  a pensive  thought,  and  holy, 

Shall  add  the  charm  of  melancholy; 


A B CADY. 


65 


Darker  shadows  mingling  in 
With  the  light  and  cheerful  green. 
The  leaf  that  tells  of  last  year’s  glory 
Shall  be  my  memento  mori. 

I will  rest,  an  hour,  and  dream 
On  the  banks  whereby  a stream 
Moves  in  tranquil  state  along, 

To  its  murmuring  undersong. 

Pictured  in  the  waveless  flow, 

Lights  and  shades  shall  come  and  go, 
Trees  and  flowers  whose  rootlets  drink 
By  sloping  marge  or  shelving  brink ; 
Vine-clad  rock  whose  heavy  brow 
Frowns  upon  the  flood  below; 

All  the  verdure  of  the  hills, 

And  the  molten  glow  that  fills 
Valley  stretching  far  away 
In  the  warm  and  golden  ray; 

All  that ’s  bright  and  soft  and  fair 
Shall  be  sweetly  imaged  there, 

In  the  heaven  of  blue  that  lies 
Mirrored  far  beneath  mine  eyes. 

What,  awake,  I failed  to  learn, 

Dreaming  thus,  I shall  discern: 

E 


66 


ARC  ARY. 


How  that  Nature  could  not  pass, 

And  regard  not,  in  the  glass, 

Clear  reflections  that  shall  show 
Beauty  what  it  fain  must  know. 
There  shall  fancy  also  see, 

In  the  pictured  cloud  and  tree, 

Hint,  from  what  is  dumb  and  blind, 
Of  the  conscious  world  of  mind. 

And  beside,  I learn  by  this 
What  I otherwise  might  miss, 

How  all  Being  is  a feat 
Nature  somehow  would  repeat. 

So  shall  every  wakened  sense 
Bring  me  pure  intelligence; 

Sights  and  sounds  and  odorous  smells 
Such  as  meet  me  nowhere  else: 

So  shall  dreams  and  drowsiness 
Teach  me  not  a whit  the  less : 

So  the  weary  toil  and  fret 
Of  life,  will  I,  awhile,  forget: 

Fret  and  feverish  life  to  calm, 
Nature’s  presence  shall  be  balm : 

And  the  day  shall  swiftly  fly, 

Sloping  down  the  western  sky, 


While  the  shadows  on  the  grass 
Measure  how  the  moments  pass. 

Time  shall  mark  the  fleeting  hours 
By  the  swinging  bells  of  flowers ; 

Or  the  dial-plate  shall  be 
Blooming  sward  whereon  the  tree, 

In  whose  coolness  I repose, 

Makes  the  dusky  trace  that  grows 
And  lengthens  till  the  setting  sun 
Merges  all  the  shades  in  one. 

Let  me  go  and  tarry  where 
Fields  are  green  and  skies  are  fair ; 
For  the  landscape,  let  me  quit 
Blinding  wall  and  stony  street, 

And  exchange  the  imprisoning  house 
For  a leafy  tent  of  boughs: 

Let  me  hide  myself  from  men, 

Printed  book  or  stroke  of  pen, 

For  a livelong  afternoon 
In  budding  May  or  flowery  June, 

And  I will  learn  a lesson  which 
Thought  has  failed  to  shape  in  speech. 
Teachers,  voices,  I will  And 
In  opening  flower  and  breathing  wind, 


68 


ARCADY. 


Nor  know  what  ’tis  to  be  alone, 

While  I converse  with  plant  and  stone, 
And  haunt  the  dreamy  solitudes 
That  lie  within  the  ancient  woods. 


NE  VERM  ORE. 


69 


NEVERMORE. 

mPIE  roses  have  blown, 

And  the  swallows  have  flown, 
With  the  Summer-winds,  over  the  sea; 
Yet  the  warmth  and  the  rain, 
Returning  again, 

Shall  bring  them  all  back  to  me. 

But  O for  the  things 
That  fly  swifter  than  wings, 

Or  than  Summer- winds  over  the  sea ; 
For  the  Hopes  that  are  flown, 

For  the  Lost  that  are  gone, 

Nevermore  to  come  back  to  me. 


70 


THE  THREE  PARTINGS. 


THE  THREE  PARTINGS. 

# 

YTTHEN  I and  Childhood  parted, 

* * We  both  were  so  light-hearted, 
And  ’t  is  so  long  ago, 

That  I do  scarcely  know 
What  time  it  was  we  parted. 

When  Youth  came  up  to  leave  me, 
The  rogue  thought  to  deceive  me ; 

But  smiles  could  not  disguise 
The  tear-drops  in  his  eyes, 

When  Youth  came  up  to  leave  me. 

Manhood  and  I,  together, 

Have  stood  through  wind  and  weather, 
This  many  a day;  and  O, 

If  he  should  choose  to  go, 

We  both  must  go  together. 


ALWAYS  THE  ROSE. 


7 


ALWAYS  THE  ROSE. 


TWT OW  I am  young,  and  Spring  is  my  song, 
Spring  with  its  warmth  and  the  bud  of  the  rose 
When  I grow  older,  when  I grow  colder, 

Then  I may  sing  of  the  frosts  and  the  snows. 


Now  it  is  May-day,  life ’s  in  its  hey-day, 

Every  thing  buds  and  blossoms  and  glows. 

When  ’t  is  December,  shall  I remember 
To  tell  in  my  song  how  the  wintry  wind  blows? 

Nay,  nay,  even  then,  the  songlet  again 
Shall  sing  in  old  age,  amidst  Winter’s  repose, 
Of  the  seed  and  the  blossom,  held  close  in  his  bosom 
Awaiting  the  Spring ; ’t  will  be  still  of  the  rose. 


72 


THIS  WORLD  IS  ALL  TOO  FAIR . 


THIS  WORLD  IS  ALL  TOO  FAIR. 

millS  world  is  all  too  fair  and  sweet, 

And  Life  too  short,  and  Death  too  strong, 
For  Love  to  dwell  in,  and  complete 
The  promise  of  his  early  song. 

The  prelude  that  begins  all  gay, 

And  sounds  out  many  a note  of  glee, 

And  bravely  echoes  far  away, 

Soon  murmurs  in  the  minor  key. 

And  sobs  and  broken  snatches  ease 
The  burden  of  Love’s  wordless  grief, 

Till  Death  brings  in  the  long  release, 

And  Silence  shows  the  full  relief. 


A UTUMNAL. 


73 


AUTUMNAL. 

fTlHE  flying  Year,  at  last,  begins  to  wane, 

And  many  a sweet  has  bloomed  and  passed  away ; 
The  wind  blows  over  stubble,  where  the  grain 
Waved  in  its  golden  state  but  yesterday. 

What  odorous  buds  have  dropt  from  twig  and  bough, 
What  flowers  have  lost  their  play  of  light,  and  shed 
Their  leafy  splendor,  as  the  months  have  sped 
Swiftly  toward  Autumn.  Ah,  my  heart  asks  now, 
After  the  memories  of  its  early  Spring, 

When  Earth  was  April,  and  the  tuneful  throats 
Of  the  first  birds  began  to  trill  and  sing ; 

When  Life  was  all  a May-bloom,  and  the  notes 
Of  countless  couples  made  the  forest  ring. 

O then  the  garden  was  a glorious  thing 
Of  largest  promise ; every  swelling  bud 
Looked  to  the  future ; and  the  orchard  stood 
Burdened  with  blossoms.  But  the  bloom  took  wing 
And  fled,  pray  whither,  and  for  what  poor  reason  ? 
Why  not  arrest  the  beauty  of  the  season, 

7 


74 


A UTUMNAL. 


And  make  the  joy  perpetual?  Why  decline 
Toward  other  suns  less  happy,  though  they  shine 
Longer  and  brighter  ? ’T  is  a mad  unrest 
That  quits  the  Spring,  when  all  is  newly  drest, 

And  Y outh  and  Love  show  Beauty  at  her  best, 

And  moves  toward  Age  and  Autumn. 

Look  around  ! 

No  more  I linger  in  the  fairy  ground 
Of  youthful  wonder.  Flowers  have  run  to  seed, 

And  buds  have  ripened  into  homely  fruit ; 

And  by  the  alley  green  and  garden-walk, 

Comes  pushing  up,  the  rank  and  poisonous  weed, 

In  the  hot  sunshine.  Can  the  Days  transmute 
What  hung  in  fragile  grace  upon  the  stalk, 

And  was  a fluttering  life,  to  rind  or  shell 
Enclosing  kernel  of  no  higher  use 
Than  to  be  crushed  and  eaten  ? It  is  well. 

The  world  must  starve,  could  buds  and  blossoms  choose 
To  stay  in  bloom  forever.  This  might  please 
Fantastic  dreamers  and  the  mad-cap  bees, 

That  feed  on  flowers  and  honey,  and  would  wing 
An  endless  flight  among  the  sweets  of  Spring. 

I would  not  stop  the  Seasons,  even  although 
To  outward  husk  and  hardness  I shall  grow, 


A UTUMNAL . 


75 


If  germinant  life  be  in  me  and  infuse 
A spirit  of  love  to  knit  the  hours  together. 

All  is  not  loss ; I gain  by  what  I lose : 

And  when  the  Year  is  done  with  wintry  weather, 
Unnumbered  buds  shall  open  to  repeat 
The  half-forgotten  glory  ; and  the  feet 
Of  Spring  shall  wake  the  form  that  sleeps  and  waits 
In  root  and  seed.  Then,  through  the  open  gates 
Of  Youth  and  Beauty,  Life  shall  come  again, 

And  bring  heart- throbbings  and  the  sweet  surprise 
Which  no  one  finds,  or  parts  with,  all  in  vain, 
Though  brief  ^he  presence,  and  the  loss  remain 
To  be  recalled  it  last,  with  tearful  eyes. 


76 


TWO  QUESTIONS . 


TWO  QUESTIONS. 

T)RAY,  what  is  old?  The  ancient  wood 
Renews  itself  in  leaf  and  bud; 

And  in  the  boughs,  lo,  every  Spring, 

The  birds  build  there,  and  brood,  and  sing. 
Look  in  the  garden ; every  bed 
Is  living  white  or  blue  or  red. 

The  violet  grows  as  fresh  and  young 
As  when  its  praises  first  were  sung. 

The  rose  puts  on  as  sweet  a blush 
As  when  its  beauty  first  did  gush 
Into  the  poet’s  song.  And  so, 

The  lily,  too,  as  fair  doth  grow 
As  when,  by  the  astonished  sun, 

Its  whiteness  first  was  shone  upon. 

I asked  again,  pray,  what  is  dead? 

Is  it  the  ground  on  which  I tread  ? 

Earth,  ashes,  dust?  Nay,  life  is  there, 

That  stirs  and  seeks  the  light  and  air. 


TWO  QUESTIONS. 


77 


A little  seed  is  dropped  therein  ; 

Awhile  it  hides  and  sleeps  unseen ; 

Earth  wakes  it,  and  it  shapes  the  mould 
To  forms  of  beauty.  Is  that  old, 
Powerless,  and  dead,  which  shortly  shows 
Itself  in  violet,  lily,  rose ; 

Which  hath  the  force,  with  sun  and  rain 
And  heavenly  dews,  to  cover  plain, 
Wood,  hill -side,  garden,  craggy  rock, 
With  bud  and  leaf  and  flowering  stalk? 

What  then  is  old,  I once  more  said, 

And  what  is  rightly  labelled  dead? 

It  is  the  thing  without  a use  ; 

That  neither  lives  nor  doth  infuse 
Life  into  others ; that  keeps  state 
Unchanging,  worthless,  isolate. 

That  thing,  though  called  by  any  name 
Of  honor,  glory,  hate,  or  shame, 

Crown,  cross,  book,  man,  or  all,  or  each, 
Ceasing  to  rule,  guide,  comfort,  teach, 
And  that  alone,  is  old  and  dead, 

Utterly  past ; and  in  its  stead, 

Uprises  Life,  and  what  is  knit, 

By  any  living  tie,  to  it. 


78 


OUTSIDE  THE  C A THE  DEAL. 


OUTSIDE  THE  CATHEDEAL. 


"TTTHAT  temple  can  compare 
f " With  this  blue  dome  of  air, 

Which  the  Almighty  Hand  hath  shaped  and  rounded  ? 
What  organ-pipes  can  blow 
The  tones  that  come  and  go, 

When  storms  rush  by,  and  thunder’s  trump  hath 
sounded  ? 


The  finest  human  wit 
Can  only  miniature  it, 

And  hint  to  us,  in  small,  the  vastly  greater : 

By  wall  and  trembling  spire, 

We  climb  and  point  up  higher, 

And  symbolize  the  work  of  the  Creator. 

Upon  the  organ’s  note 
We  rise  and  softly  float, 

And  lift  our  souls  above  the  clouds  and  thunder: 
We  gather  strength  to  wing 
A heavenward  flight,  and  sing; 

Or  worship  best,  when  lost  in  silent  wonder. 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS. 


79 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS. 
HAT  skill  shall  tell  the  Ages  of  the  Earth? 


What  patient  reckoning  shall  slowly  mount 
Through  cycle  after  cycle  to  its  birth  ? 

What  chastened  dream  of  Science  shall  recount 
The  wonders  of  its  youth  ? The  years  have  left 
Their  flying  foot-prints  in  the  solid  rock ; 

And  what  the  abysmal  force  hath  heaved  and  reft 
To  peak  and  splintered  crag  by  strain  and  shock, 
The  countless  days  have  rounded.  Time  hath  sown 
The  lichen  on  the  baldness  of  the  steep ; 

And  sun  and  frost  and  wind  and  rain  have  thrown 
Rich  dust  in  barren  crevice.  Mosses  creep ; 

And  seeds  begin  to  strike  a deeper  root ; 

Tall  ferns  arise ; and  trees  make  bolder  shoot, 
Pushing  their  way  toward  heaven  among  the  storms 
That  stir  and  nurse  them. 


Where  rocks  are  worn  to  dust ; and  leafy  forms 
Are  left  in  lithograph  ; and  forests  are  hurled 


JT  is  an  old  world, 


80 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROOFS. 


Beneath  the  hills;  and  early  verdure  lies 
Transformed  to  fossils;  and  where  cities  sleep 
Buried  in  lava ; and  the  Living  keep 
Ruins  for  studies.  Yet  new  shapes  arise 
Fresher  and  fairer  out  of  all  this  wreck. 

This  dust  and  ashes  is  the  kindly  soil 
Whence  nobler  forms  uplift  themselves  and  deck 
The  Earth  more  sweetly.  Age  is  but  the  foil 
To  budding  youth.  By  the  volcano’s  base, 

And  where  the  molten  stream  made  beds  of  fire, 
The  flower,  at  last,  begins  to  show  its  face ; 

And  builders  slowly  build  their  dwellings  nigher, 
Until  a city  stands  above  the  place 
Where  one  lies  buried.  Round  the  broken  shaft, 
Carved  with  such  art  that  all  the  Graces  laughed 
In  triumph  when  the  miracle  was  done, 

Beneath  unaltered  sky  and  changeless  sun, 

The  tendril  twines  and  climbs  ; the  ivy  drapes 
With  green  the  faded  show  of  crumbling  wall  ; 
Thick  tufts  of  grass  and  vines  with  purpling  grapes 
Run  into  wild  luxuriance  where  the  fall 
Of  temple  and  tower  are  dateless  and  complete ; 

The  waste  becomes  a wilderness  of  sweet; 

And  trees  have  grained  the  centuries  into  wood, 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS.  81 

* 

Fixing  their  trunks  in  ruins  that  have  stood 
Ruined  for  ages. 

Death  is  but  the  dumb 
Servant  of  Life.  Let  the  years  go  and  come. 

Each  day  draws  freshness  from  the  dewy  dawn ; 
Each  year  takes  tribute  of  a wealthier  Past, 

And  gives  a larger  promise.  What  hath  gone 
Leaves  sign  or  seed  or  influence  that  shall  last 
Forever  in  its  office.  Lo,  each  hour 
Renews  life,  youth,  and  beauty.  From  the  dusk 
And  mould  that  minister  about  the  seed, 

Look  how  the  stem  comes  forth ; and  how  the  flower 
Bursts  into  fulness  from  the  sheathing  husk, 

And  breaks  the  light  to  colors  which  do  feed 
The  poet’s  sight  and  fancy. 

What  success 

At  a perpetual  freshness  Nature  hath 
Amid  the  old  and  constant,  when  the  path 
Of  beaten  order,  childhood’s  footsteps  press ; 

And  on  the  ancient  marvel,  childhood’s  eyes 
Look  with  the  gladness  of  a first  surprise. 

And  for  the  growing  wisdom  of  the  Man, 

She  hath  reserves  and  largesses  in  store, 

That  are  exhaustless.  Who  shall  fix  or  scan 


F 


82  A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS . 

Limit  and  scope  of  things,  and  find  no  more 
Above  him  and  beyond?  Each  hidden  law, 
Discovered  by  long  study  to  the  sight, 

Thrills  hoary  Sage  with  all  the  dear  delight 
Of  childhood;  and  the  freshness  that  he  saw 
In  the  far  days,  once  more  about  him,  fills 
Earth  and  the  heavens  ;v  and  the  sense  of  power, 
Being,  and  manhood,  makes  the  rapturous  hour 
One  with  his  earliest  moments,  when  the  hills 
Caught  the  first  rays  of  dawning  light,  and  threw 
Their  wondrous  shadows  o’er  his  childish  view. 

Science  walks  forth  among  the  nebulous  mist 
Of  the  world’s  morn,  and  sees  the  ring  and  sphere 
Part  from  the  central  sun.  Geologist 
Succeeds  Astronomer,  and  doth  appear 
When  the  swift  globe  in  empty  space  is  swung, 
Whirling  serene,  and  moving  on  among 
It’s  fellow  planets.  He  hath  wit  and  skill 
To  read  the  ancient  scriptures  of  the  rocks ; 

And  mark  out  Ages  by  the  trace  of  shocks 
In  the  Earth’s  crust.  Ascending  back  at  will 
To  times  that  antedate  the  birth  of  Man, 
lie  would  restore  the  past,  and  make  the  plan 
Of  Nature  clear  and  present.  What  a realm 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS. 


83 


Of  poetry  and  wonder  he  explores. 

Beneath  the  floods  that  sweep  and  overwhelm, 

He  sees  old  Ocean  lay  the  solid  floors 
That  now  are  Continents.  He  feels  the  beat 
And  feverish  pulse  of  inward  fire  and  heat 
Throb  into  Mountains.  In  the  stable  state 
Ruling  around  so  tranquilly  to-day, 

He  finds  the  vestige  and  the  relative  date 
Of  earthquake,  flood,  tornado,  and  the  play 
Of  forces  that  appal  us.  Look  again ! 

The  old  is  fresh  and  vital,  and  the  extinct 
Revives  and  blooms ; Life,  Death,  all  interlinked 
And  pressed  together.  Cliff  and  chasm  and  glen 
Are  books  and  libraries  of  ancient  lore, 

Written  and  shelved  unnumbered  years  before 
The  eye  was  formed  that  reads  them.  We  restore 
The  olden  Floras  from  the  little  print 
Made  in  the  hill-side ; from  the  seams  of  coal, 

The  crushed,  charred  forest  rises  green  and  whole. 
From  bone  that  shows  a mere  organic  hint* 

The  skeleton  is  built  and  fleshed  and  gives 
Its  form  and  habits,  and  again  it  lives 
Translated  to  the  Ideal.  Every  place 
Is  lettered  with  the  Past.  Upon  the  face 


84 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS , 


Of  solid  rock,  the  rain-drop  shows  its  trace; 

And  ripples  made  by  force  of  ancient  wind, 

That  swept  the  world  with  stir  of  living  breath 
Ages  ago,  and  blew  itself  to  death, 

Roughen  and  mark  the  stone,  and  stay  behind 
Motionless  ever.  Language  fails  to  speak 
What  Time  and  Might  have  done.  The  highest  peak 
That  shows  its  mass  of  granite  to  the  sun, 

Has  roots  that  only  strike  the  further  down ; 

And  through  bleak  top  and  pierced  and  riven  crown, 
The  fiery  floods  uplift  themselves  and  run, 

Revealing  lowest  depths:  and  ice  and  snow, 

About  the  summit,  feel  the  liquid  glow 

Of  the  World’s  Centre.  And  the  smallest  thing, 

Impression,  fragment,  twig,  leaf,  insect  caught 

In  the  translucent  amber,  all  are  fraught 

With  deep  suggestion,  and  have  power  to  bring 

The  former  ages  back,  and  make  them  part 

Of  the  living  Present  and  the  Earth’s  great  heart. 

The  Worshipper  transforms  the  Past  and  Old 
To  a Religion.  There  he  finds  the  source 
Of  highest  Teaching.  Thence  the  stream  is  rolled 
That  bears  the  nations  onward  in  its  course, 
Guiding  and  blessing.  There  the  Garden  lies 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS . 


85 


Wherein  God  walked : the  bowers  of  Paradise 
Blow  round  about  the  primal  happy  pair, 

And  Earth  and  Heaven  hold  sweet  communion  there. 
Strange  sounds  become  familiar,  and  the  noise, 
Motion,  and  life  of  earliest  times  are  caught. 

Dead  languages  grow  quick  with  living  thought, 
And  speak  with  high  Authority  and  a voice 
Of  the  world’s  thunder  in  them.  Books  are  brought 
Down  from  the  distance,  laden  with  the  weight 
Of  the  flown  years,  and  priceless  with  the  freight 
Of  sacred  text,  where  Laws  rise  to  Commands, 

And  Principles  are  uttered,  which  have  strength 
To  shape  Man’s  destiny,  and  run  the  length 
And  breadth  of  all  the  ages  and  the  lands. 

A clue  is  found  to  thrid  the  tangled  maze 
Of  the  earth’s  labyrinth : and  the  many  ways 
Of  tribe  and  nation  underneath  the  sun, 

Begin  to  have  an  order  and  to  run 
After  historic  method,  and  to  tend 
Helpfully  on  and  toward  a common  end. 

Back  to  the  regions  old  and  consecrate, 

The  reverent  heart  makes  holy  pilgrimage, 

And  youth  learns  homage,  and  to  bow  and  wait 
8 


86 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS. 


At  shrines  that  have  their  place  and  take  their  date 
In  the  far  land  and  in  the  distant  age. 

The  Painter  finds  new  breath  of  impulse  where 
The  Past  gives  glimpse  of  glories,  and  the  spot 
Is  strewn  with  shattered  splendors,  and  the  air 
Murmurs  of  years  that  will  not  be  forgot 
While  the  wind  sighs  through  ruins.  He  doth  tread 
Where  Might  and  Empire  now  are  gone  and  dead, 
Save  as  a dim  remembanee,  and  a place 
In  which  to  dream  of  many  a vanished  face 
And  form  and  fashion.  He  beholds  the  grace 
With  which  the  Olden  World  knew  how  to  die. 

He  sees  the  smile  of  sweetness  that  doth  lie  * 

Fixed  on  the  visage  whence  the  life  is  fled. 

O happy  days,  long  past  and  swiftly  sped 
Down  the  far  vista  that  the  years  have  made, 

And  filled  with  tenderest  tints  of  light  and  shade. 
He  walks  the  galleries  of  Art,  which  Time, 

The  oldest  master,  wrought,  and  which  are  still 
Touched  and  retouched  with  traces  of  a skill 
Tearful  and  glorious.  What  a golden  clime 
To  dream  and  dwell  in,  when  the  Past  can  bring 
Wide  realms  to  tempt  imagination’s  wing; 

And  where  the  sky  is  rich  with  the  sunset- glow 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS . 87 


Of  Age  and  People  that  have  sunk  below 
The  world’s  horizon.  Ah ! what  melts  the  heart, 
Touching  the  sense  and  inmost  soul  of  Art, 

Like  the  dim  light,  vague  forms,  and  shadowy  haze 
That  make  a halo  round  the  far-off  days? 

The  Poet  leaves  the  Present,  and  he  goes 
For  inspiration,  where  the  music  flows 
Vibrant  and  voiceful,  tender  and  sublime, 

Down  the  long  aisles  and  echoing  vaults  of  Time. 
He  hears  the  shout,  the  song,  the  choral  hymn 
Float  from  the  ages,  through  the  twilight  dim, 

And  all  the  Past  becomes  a quickened  thing 
That  loves  and  sings  and  teaches  him  to  sing. 

He  leaves  awhile  the  violet  and  the  rose ; 

He  quits  the  garden,  though  it  buds  and  blows 
With  promise  of  the  Future,  that  he  may 
Wander  at  large  in  olden  tracts,  and  stray 
In  the  weird  worlds  where  Beauty’s  self  doth  seem 
But  inspiration,  memory,  and  a dream. 

The  Historian  walks  among  the  mighty  Dead, 
Painting  their  portraits,  as  the  faces  shine 
Out  of  the  dusk  and  gloom,  in  many  a line 
Of  marvellous  finish.  Hark!  he  hears  the  tread 
Of  armies  that  are  dust.  Upon  the  page 


88  A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS. 

Nations  appear  and  vanish.  Men  engage 
At  high  debate  in  Forum.  On  the  field 
The  leader  speaks  before  the  marshalled  host ; 

The  serried  ranks  approach  and  clash  and  yield, 
And  States  and  Empires,  there,  are  won  and  lost. 
How  facts  are  blent  with  fables!  Who  shall  find 
The  thoughts  that  link  together  all  mankind, 
Connecting  earliest  savage  with  the  sage, 

And  having  power  to  co-relate  and  bind 
Man  unto  man,  and  age  to  coming  age? 

The  Antiquary  nurses  in  his  breast 
A passion  for  the  by-gone.  He  doth  build, 

Out  of  the  moss  and  lichen,  many  a nest 
By  tombs  and  ruins.  Quick  is  he  and  skilled 
At  old  inscriptions,  to  decipher  what 
The  winds  and  rains  have  blurred,  or  is  forgot, 
Being  writ  in  a dead  language.  Unto  him 
The  oldest  is  the  newest.  He  doth  know, 

In  coin  and  medal  eaten  by  the  rust 
Until  the  letters  have  grown  faint  and  dim, 

And  form  and  fashion  are  half-way  toward  dust, 

A current  use  and  value  that  outgo 
All  metals  which  the  graver  or  the  die 
Has  lately  struck  or  graven.  There  do  lie 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS . 


89 


Rich  trophies,  realms,  and  treasures  vast, 

Within  the  boundless  empire  of  the  Past, 

Which  he  would  seek  and  reconstruct;  and  where 
He  wills  to  rule,  free  from  the  fret  and  care 
That  haunt  the  Present. 

And  the  Scholar,  who 
Lives  on  the  printed  page,  and  only  looks 
At  the  world  indirectly,  using  books 
To  find  the  Beautiful,  the  Good,  the  True, 

That  live  and  dwell  in  Nature;  he  shall  see 
The  years  and  ages  pass  in  grand  review, 

Done  into  symbols.  All  the  world  shall  be 
Volumed  and  labelled.  Language  shall  rehearse 
The  mighty  drama ; and  the  rhythmic  verse 
Throb  to  the  varied  movement.  Naught  shall  sleep 
In  utter  darkness.  Images  shall  keep 
The  form  of  what  doth  vanish.  Pictures  clear 
And  fadeless  make  Antiquity  appear 
Fair  and  immortal ; and  the  rosy  blush 
That  hung  about  the  morning  of  the  world 
Is  fixed  forever.  Listen  to  the  gush 
Of  Life  in  the  old  centuries.  Hear  the  rush 
Of  tribes  and  nations,  as  the  years  are  whirled 
Rapidly  onward.  Thought  has  power  to  knit 
8* 


90 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS. 


The  abrupt  together,  and  thereby  to  give 
Order  and  process  to  the  states  that  flit 
In  swift  and  strange  succession.  All  shall  live, 
Where  books  do  garner  up  and  plant*  the  seeds 
Of  germinant  truths  that  shape  themselves  to  deeds, 
And  swell  to  bud,  and  show  the  perfect  form 
That  grows  and  ripens  in  the  sun  and  storm, 

And  leaves  new  seed  behind  it,  to  unfold 
Fresher  and  fairer  than  what  went  before. 

The  blossom  drops,  the  leaflet  quits  its  hold 
Upon  the  bough ; and  yet  the  trunk  that  bore 
The  beauty  up  toward  heaven  shall  feel  the  flow 
Of  finer  life  within  the  sunken  roots. 

Blossoms  and  leaves  fall  down  to  die  and  go 
Toward  richer  sap : and  thus  the  next  year  puts 
A fairer  beauty  on,  and  broader  shade, 

, Because  last  year,  in  dying,  went  to  aid 
His  swift  successor  forward. 

And  behold! 

When  Time  and  Change  have  made  the  Wise  man  old, 
Philosopher  turns  Poet,  and  doth  dream 
In  a new  language.  All  about  him  spread 
Are  realms  of  wonder.  Transient  glimpse  and  gleam 
Change  to  the  steady  sunshine  overhead, 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS . 


91 


And  to  the  open  vision.  And  he  stands, 

With  rule  and  line  of  measure  in  his  hands, 

Taking  such  measures  that  the  simple  sum 
Has  force  to  strike  imagination  dumb. 

Beneath  the  ceaseless  movements  which  transpire 

Around  him  and  within;  beneath  the  fire 

Which  heaves  the  mountains  and  pours  forth  the  flood 

Of  lava  on  the  valleys,  there  doth  rest 

A changeless  Law,  an  Order  sweet  and  calm, 

Giving  a tranquil  current  to  his  blood 

Amid  all  shocks  and  crises : and  his  breast 

Leans  on  the  harp  of  nature,  while  the  psalm 

Of  love  and  trust  uprises  from  his  lips 

No  longer  mute  with  terror.  For  he  dips 

Beneath  the  surface,  piercing  to  the  core 

And  kernel  of  the  world,  and  finds  the  germ 

And  regulative  life,  that  triumph  o’er 

All  change  and  death,  and  put  a steadfast  term 

To  wreck  and  ruin.  Thus  doth  he  relate 

Youth  unto  Age,  and  thus  subordinate 

Death  unto  Life.  A sweet  philosophy 

Knits  what  has  been,  to  all  that  is  to  be. 

The  Old  and  Past  are  mighty  and  do  reach 
Livingly  forward.  Manners,  customs,  laws, 


92  A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS . 

Great  institutions,  trivial  forms  of  speech 
There  find  condition,  and  the  primal  cause 
Whence  they  have  risen.  Scarce  a letter  or  word 
But  shows  handwriting  of  an  ancient  race 
Still  known  and  current,  and  whose  voice  is  heard 
In  senate,  closet,  camp,  and  market-place, 

Busy  or  eloquent.  And  the  hieroglyph 
Cut  on  the  shaft  or  front  of  sacred  wall 
Hath  lessons  for  us  in  its  symbols,  if 
We  read  aright  the  olden  sketch  and  scrawl 
When  scribe  emerged  from  painter.  We  derive 
From  twilight  ages  and  from  dusty  nooks 
The  organic  wisdom,  laid  away  in  books, 

Which,  used,  becomes  still  present  and  alive, 
Growing  and  blessing.  Open  but  the  door 
Of  library  full-freighted  with  the  store 
And  wealth  of  knowledge ; read  the  title-page 
Of  the  large  learning ; fix  the  place  and  age 
Of  chosen  volumes ; you  shall  thereby  find 
A bloom  and  freshness  in  the  world  of  mind 
That  has  no  fading,  and  that  stirs  and  grows 
Fairly  forever. 

Nature  lives  and  shows 

The  Past  still  in  the  Present.  What  was  best, 


A READING  FROM  THE  ROCKS.  93 

Strongest,  and  worthiest,  in  the  epochs  tied, 

Doth  not  lie  waste  and  desolate  and  dead, 

But  flourishes  and  comes  forth  newly  drest 
In  all  the  array  of  Life.  The  ages  flow 
Continuous  and  vital.  As  the  Seasons  go 
Their  little  round  of  mutual  help,  and  bring 
The  Summer’s  glory  from  the  buds  of  Spring, 

And  Autumn’s  fulness  out  from  both  of  these, 

That  Winter  may  have  goodly  rest  and  ease, 

With  store  of  golden  fruit,  ere  Time  doth  lead 
Once  more  the  babbling  brook  adown  the  mead, 
And  all  toward  April:  so  the  rounded  Years 
And  the  full  Centuries  move  slowly  on, 

And  open  fairer  buds,  and  show  the  bloom 
Of  richer  flowers,  and  ripen  heavier  ears 
For  the  world’s  harvest ; and  when  earth  is  drawn 
Awhile  from  blossom  and  the  soft  perfume 
Of  breathing  flower,  behold  how  Time  doth  fill 
Unnumbered  seeds  that  look  toward  Spring,  and  still 
Tend  thither.  Thus  the  swifter  and  the  less 
Show  forth  the  general  movement,  and  express, 

In  miniature,  the  mighty  and  sublime 

That  crowd  the  endless  reach  of  Space  and  Time. 

Thus,  by  the  swift  and  ever-varying  train 


94 


A HEADING  FROM  THE  ROCKS. 


Of  personal  .changes ; by  the  sense  of  growth  ; 

By  memory  of  childhood ; and  again 
By  joys  of  parentage  securing  both 
Present  and  future;  by  the  hopes  that  start 
With  morn  and  spring-time;  by  the  cares  of  Art 
Carrying  the  organic  forward ; by  the  slow 
And  steady  movements  which,  at  length,  displace 
Successive  generations  from  the  face 
Of  this  fair  planet ; by  the  ceaseless  flow 
That  bears  away  the  nations,  and  doth  change 
Centre  and  theatre  of  worldly  state, 

Bringing  old  realms  within  the  sudden  range 
Of  might  that ' layeth  waste  and  desolate, 

To  build  again  and  plant  and  renovate; 

And  by  the  Life  that  rises  doubly  great 

From  out  this  lapse,  and  grows  the  more,  and  blooms, 

Because  its  rootlets  reach  within  the  tombs 

Of  buried  days,  and  shape  the  ancient  mould 

To  a living  glory: —what  is  Dead  and  Old, 

By  such  devices,  lives  again  and  shows 
An  endless  youth  and  sweetness. 

Now  it  grows 

Late  in  the  world.  The  long-drawn  ages  now 
Are  niched  and  sepultured  among  the  rocks; 


A HEADING  FROM  THE  ROCKS. 


95 


The  leafy  bloom  of  countless  years  aga 
Is  hid  away  in  black  and  hardened  blocks 
Among  the  coal-beds.  Crumbling  tombs  enfold 
A human  desolation.  Many  a thought 
Lies  buried  in  the  sandstone.  Ruins  hold 
By-gone  experiences,  and  we  are  brought 
Back  to  the  vestiges  which  we  have  left, 

As  riddles  to  decipher.  And  we  find 
The  heart,  too,  hath  its  fossils.  Through  the  cleft 
Which  Time  and  Pain  have  made,  the  howling  wind 
Blows  bleakly  on  us.  Yet  in  such  an  earth, 

So  marked  and  scarred  with  age,  a Child  is  born : 
And  with  the  fact  and  moment  of  his  birth, 

The  world,  the  Universe  is  made  anew; 

It  lies  rebosomed  in  its  primal  morn, 

Bathed  with  the  early  freshness  and  the  dew. 

The  fields  are  green,  the  skies  are  fair  and  blue : 
On  budding  boughs  the  birds  make  haste  to  sing, 
And  life  awakes  amid  the  dawn  of  Springs 
The  Book  of  Genesis  begins  once  more; 

And  History  must  be  written  out  again, 

Reshaped,  with  further  chapters  than  before, 

Still  incomplete,  and  only  finished  when 
The  final  man  puts  stop  to  the  Race  of  men. 


96 


TO  THE  BL  UEBIED. 


TO  THE  BLUEBIRD. 


"lYTHEN’  winds  are  lulled  in  early  Spring, 

* * And  parted  clouds  give  sunshine  through, 
Thou  comest  first,  and  on  thy  wTing 
Dost  bear  a dash  of  Summer’s  blue. 


Thou  sittest  on  the  leafless  bough 

That  swells  with  sap  and  fills  its  buds, 
And  with  thy  simple  warblings,  thou 
Preludest  all  the  voiceful  woods. 

The  time  of  song  could  not  begin 

With  sweeter,  dreamier  notes  than  those; 
Thou  bringest  all  its  fulness  in, 

As  buds  bring  in  the  full-blown  rose. 


And  when  the  louder  gush  has  come 
Of  many  voices,  and  the  Year 
Has  stepped  toward  Summer,  art  thou  dumb, 
Or  is  it  I who  fail  to  hear? 


TO  THE  BLUEBIRD. 


97 


Yet  silent,  or  unheard  among 

The  fuller  strains  the  months  have  brought, 

There  is  a welcome  in  thy  Song, 

A joy  that  will  not  be  forgot. 

I wait  to  hear  thy  voice  again, 

When  wintry  winds  have  ceased  to  blow ; 

I wait  until  the  early  rain 

Dissolves  the  streaks  of  drifted  snow. 

And  not  in  vain:  for  soon  I hear 
Thy  welcome  warble  low  and  sweet: 

Of  Hope  thou  art  the  symbol  dear, 

Which  swift  Fulfilment  goes  to  meet. 

Sing  by  my  window  all  the  day, 

And  let  thy  tremulous  joy  so  reach 

My  inmost  being,  that  I may 

Translate  thy  little  song  to  speech. 

Nor  pause  the  while  I shape  to  word 
The  passing  Song  that  seemeth  mine ; 

It  only  echoes  what  is  heard ; 

Receive  it  from  me,  for  ’t  is  thine. 

9 G 


98 


TO  THE  BLUEBIRD . 


Build  on  the  naked  bough  thy  nest ; 

The  bloom  shall  haste  to  hedge  thee  round, 
And  life,  within  thy  little  breast, 

Fulfil  its  sweet  prelusive  sound. 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  SONG. 


99 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  SONG. 

TS  it  the  Flowers  have  lost  their  grace, 
They  look  so  faint  and  wan? 

Or  is  it  the  Roses  in  my  face 
Have  drooped  and  gone, 

Have  drooped  and  gone? 

Is  it  the  Rainbow  that  has  fled 
From  out  the  cloud  in  the  sky? 

Or  is  it  Hope  that  seemeth  dead, 

And  soon  must  die, 

And  soon  must  die? 

Is  it  the  Sun  has  lost  his  fire, 

He  shines  so  pale  and  cold? 

Or  am  I losing  my  Desire, 

And  growing  old, 

And  growing  old  ? 


100 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  SONG. 


Is  it  the  steadfast  Earth  that  shakes 
And  ripples  into  waves? 

Or  is  it  my  weary  Step  that  takes 
Its  way  o’er  graves, 

Its  way  o’er  graves? 


MY  WINE. 


101 


MY  WINE. 

GOOD  is  the  blood  that  escapes  from  the  grapes 

^ Which  have  purpled  themselves  in  the  sun  ; 

The  glow  of  its  flow  fills  the  night  with  delight, 

When  the  dreary  day  is  done. 

Yet  the  draught  deeply  quaffed,  from  the  cup  flieth  up 
To  kindle  and  madden  the  brain ; 

And  the  lip  that  will  sip,  may  smile  for  awhile, 

To  quiver  thereafter  with  pain. 

But  I can  defy  all  that  warms,  glows,  and  charms 
In  Burgundy  or  Tokay ; 

For  mine  is  a wine,  I can  use  as  I choose, 

And  soberly  walk  away. 

The  gloom  of  my  room  soon  rejoices  with  voices 
Through  its  shelved  and  echoing  nooks ; 

I grow  sane  as  I drain  the  wine  olden  and  golden, 
From  the  leathern  bottles  of  Books. 


9* 


102 


BE  A UTY. 


BEAUTY. 

fTIELL  me  wherein  Beauty  lies, 
Laughing  lips,  or  speaking  eyes? 
Does  she  play  at  hide  and  seek 
Midst  the  roses  of  the  cheek? 

Does  she  nestle  softly  where 
Clustering  falls  the  wealth  of  hair? 
Or,  like  Fairy,  dwells  she  in 
Dimple  of  the  chiselled  chin? 

Then  spake  Beauty,  saying,  “No, 
These  are  but  mine  outward  show. 
Life  I am,  and  Joy,  and  Love, 
Throbbing  heart  and  pulse  I move: 

“ This  am  I ; the  informing  Soul, 
Moving,  quickening  the  whole; 

And  of  me,  were  all  bereft, 

What  but  dusty  Death  were  left?” 


A MEDITATION . 


103 


A MEDITATION. 

Q1 WIFT  are  our  personal  changes.  We  grow  old. 

^ Passions  have  spent  their  fierce  volcanic  force ; 
The  fiery  lava  now  lies  hard  and  cold, 

That  once  swept  onward,  blasting  in  its  course 
What  lay  before  it.  We  dig  down,  and  find 
Dust,  ashes,  ruin  in  the  realm  of  Mind. 

There  lie  the  fossils  of  dead  Hopes  and  Fears. 

The  Past  becomes  a study  that  endears 
The  Present  to  us.  We  can  scarce  make  out 
Our  own  antiquities.  We  grope  about, 

As  in  an  ancient  cabinet,  and  gaze 
At  what  the  changing  months  and  years  have  wrought; 
At  by-gone  customs,  vanished  modes  of  thought. 
Forgotten  habits,  and  become  a maze, 

Puzzle,  and  sheer  enigma  to  ourselves. 

Dead  languages  lie  written  on  the  shelves, 

Telling  our  story.  Crumbling  ruin  and  mound 
Mark  many  a spot  of  sadness,  and  the  ground 
Is  hil locked  by  the  spade  that  digs  too  deep 


104 


A MEDITATION. 


For  any  growth  or  planting.  There  do  sleep, 

In  sunken  hollows,  forms  that  once  did  keep 
Revel  amid  the  freshness  of  the  May. 

Our  Life  repeats  the  changes  of  the  day 
And  of  the  seasons.  Time  within  us  grows 
Vital ; and  morn  and  evening  pass  away 
With  new  significance.  The  Present  shows 
The  gain  and  loss  of  all  the  varied  Past. 

The  months  are  quick  sensations ; dawn  and  dew 
Rise  into  thoughts.  The  hours  go  hurrying  fast 
And  rhythmic.  Naught  is  old  or  new, 

But  strangely  mixed  and  blent  and  fused  together. 
The  days  sweep  on,  and  we  can  scarce  tell  whether 
’T  is  Spring  or  Autumn.  As  the  moment  flies, 

One  part  of  us  is  born,  another  dies. 

We  claim  a kinship  to  the  buried  rocks, 

Are  portions  of  the  elements,  and  find 
Ourselves  now  shaken  by  the.  earthquake-shocks 
That  shook  down  olden  cities.  Now  the  wind 
Thrills  us  with  breath  of  roses  newly  blown  ; 

And  now  it  sighs,  and  makes  us  faint  and  blind 
With  mould  and  dust  of  what  was  overthrown 
Far  ages  gone.  The  violet  doth  put 
Its  beauty  forth,  and  opens  its  blue  eyes 


A MED  IT  A TION. 


105 


Smiling  upon  us ; and  the  mosses  shoot 
Over  the  tombs  of  many  a fair  Surprise 
And  Love  that  could  not  tarry  or  keep  foot 
With  the  swift  Years.  The  Child  is  dead  and  gone ; 
The  Boy  becomes  an  Ancient  to  the  Man. 

Shall  we  unwrap  the  mummy,  or  pass  on, 

Ignoring  what  we  have  been  ? 

See  the  plan 

Of  Being:  growth,  decadence,  death; 

With  others  left  behind,  to  make  the  ground 
Of  this  recurrence  endless,  when  the  breath 
In  us  is  wholly  spent.  This  is  Life’s  round. 

We  lose  our  hold  upon  the  vital  thread 
That  binds  ourselves  together,  unless  the  Dead 
Quicken  within  us,  and  a tie  run  through 
The  Old,  to  knit  and  blend  it  with  the  New. 

More  than  a part  or  hint  of  Nature,  we 
Restore  the  Past,  predict  what  is  to  be, 

Shape  out  the  Present,  fashion  the  far  ends 
Toward  which  the  general  movement  points  and  tends, 
Complete  the  round  of  change,  and  thus  become 
The  integration  and  the  living  sum 
Of  all  the  Ages.  What  though  you  and  I 
Are  born,  then  grow  awhile,  then  fade  and  die : 


/ 


106 


A MEDITATION. 


W e pass  away ; our  force,  our  work  remains  ; 

Our  children  follow  us,  rich  by  the  gains 
Of  all  that  we  have  done,  our  toils,  our  pains, 

Our  very  losses.  We  move  on,  and  make 
A place  for  others,  for  whose  dearer  sake 
To  live  is  sweet,  and  O,  of  Love  the  crown, 

It  is  not  bitter,  even  to  lie  down 

And  die.  All  dies  not  with  us.  Worthy  deed, 

True  thought,  and  generous  impulse,  and  large  aim, 
With  which  we  sow  the  Future,  as  with  seed, 

Live  on,  and  hold  our  transient  life  and  name 
Toward  a perpetual  harvest.  We  shall  pass, 

As  flowers  of  Spring,  or  as  the  Summer  grass 
Touched  by  the  scythe,  yet  each  good  act  shall  keep 
Remembrance  of  us  that  no  leaden  sleep 
Of  Death  shall  drowse.  Such  act  shall  leave  behind 
A trace  which  fire  and  frost  and  rain  and  wind 
Shall  all  be  powerless  to  obliterate, 

While  man  remains,  and  stars  have  stable  state. 


LOVE  DOTH  BEAUTIFY  THE  DAY.  107 


LOVE  DOTH  BEAUTIFY  THE  DAY. 

T OYE  doth  beautify  the  Day, 
Consecrates  the  simplest  thing ; 

Never  wanders  far  away, 

Nestling  rather,  folds  his  wing ; 

Finds  content  and  space  to  stay 
In  the  circlet  of  a ring. 

Love  doth  make  the  Night  divine, 

Makes  the  darkness  sweet  and  dear; 
Teaches  every  star  to  shine 
Doubly  steadfast,  doubly  clear 
Whispers,  clasping  hand  in  mine, 

Words  that  no  one  else  may  hear. 

Days  may  pass  and  seasons  glide, 
Bringing  losses,  bringing  gains : 

Time  hath  bliss  and  woe  beside, 

Age  steals  on  with  aches  and  pains : 
What  care  I for  Time  or  Tide, 

If  but  Love,  but  Love  remains? 


108 


BLOOM  OUT,  FLOWERS, 


BLOOM  OUT,  FLOWERS. 

T3LOOM  out,  Flowers,  while  ye  may 
Sunshine  comes  not  every  day ; 
When  the  cloud  slips  in  between, 

All  your  beauty  is  not  seen. 

Bloom  out  while  the  sun  is  high, 

Give  your  sweetness  to  the  sky, 

For  he  soon  sinks  down,  and  then 
You  must  close  and  hide  again. 

Therefore  up,  and  out  in  haste, 

Let  no  sunshine  run  to  waste : 

In  this  world  of  cloud  and  night 
Waste  no  moment  of  the  light. 

Come  forth,  violet,  come  and  bring 
Odors  to  the  breath  of  Spring; 

Show  the  sky  its  heaven  of  blue 
Sweetly  miniatured  in  you. 


BLOOM  OUT,  FLOWERS. 


109 


Rose,  come  forth,  and  be  the  queen, 
Fill  with  light  thy  bower  of  green, 
Flush  the  fragrant  air,  and  show 
How  the  month  of  June  can  glow. 

Bloom  out,  Flowers,  while  ye  may, 
Summer  stands  not  at  a stay ; 

When  the  Winter  slips  between, 

No  more  is  your  beauty  seen. 

10 


110 


DEA  TH. 


DEATH. 


TTTITHIN  the  compass  of  how  small  a space, 

* * Has  Death  the  skill  and  mastery  to  bring 
Whatever  filled  the  best  and  largest  place, 

And  had  wide  prospect  and  the  strength  of  wing 
Still  to  soar  upward.  Emperor  and  king 
And  conquering  chieftain,  who  marched  forth  to  set 
New  bounds  to  vast  dominions,  and  this  done, 
Having  made  the  world  their  map  of  empire,  yet 
Could  find  it  all  too  little  for  their  throne : 

Where  have  those  lords  and  mighty  rulers  gone  ? 
Where  is  the  head  that  grasped  the  affairs  of  state  ? 
Where  the  swift  motions  of  the  lip  and  tongue 
That  charmed  and  swayed  the  halls  of  high  debate  ? 
Where  now  the  eye  that  flashed  its  light  among 
All  shapes  and  forces,  far  within  the  deep 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  and  therein  clearly  saw, 
Written  in  shifting  forms,  the  changeless  Law 
That  guides  the  starry  courses  and  doth  keep 
Its  watch  and  ward  forever  ? And  0 where 


BE  A TIL 


111 


The  voice  that  sang  and  shook  the  joyous  air 
With  rhythmic  pulse  and  undulation  sweet, 

Till  slumbering  Echo  wakened  to  repeat, 

By  every  listening  glen  and  ro(5k  and  hill, 

The  murmur  of  the  music  and  the  thrill  ? 

Where  are  the  cunning  hands  that  knew  to  guide 
The  pen,  the  brush,  the  chisel ; by  whose  stroke 
Language  became  a power  that  shall  abide 
And  stir  the  Ages  ; and  the  canvas  woke 
To  living  shapes  and  colors ; and  the  stone 
Threw  off  its  rugged  outline,  and  revealed 
The  matchless  forms  which  elsewise  none  had  known 
Or  hoped  to  find  there  prisoned  and  concealed  ? 
Where  is  the  Beauty  that  could  stir  the  sight, 

More  than  the  painter’s  art  or  poet’s  dream, 

With  sudden  waves  and  tremblings  of  delight? 

The  Presence  that  went  by,  as  on  a stream 
The  swan  doth  float,  in  lines  of  living  grace ; 

The  changeful  glory  of  the  heavenly  face, 

Making  the  season  fairer  than  the  day 
When  Summer  turns  the  sunshine  into  rose ; 

Where  now  that  lustrous  Beauty  ? Where,  I pray, 
That  voice  of  music  with  its  ebbs  and  flows ; 

Monarch,  and  maiden,  scholar,  statesman,  all 


112 


BE  A TH. 


That  shone  in  court,  camp,  closet,  field,  and  hall ; 
Where  now  are  they  ? 

Beneath  the  sculptured  stone, 
And  hid  within  the  cheerless  cold  and  dark, 

The  king,  discrowned,  lies  courtless  and  alone ; 

The  wise  man’s  wit  is  quenched  beyond  a spark ; 

The  tongue  of  Eloquence  is  stricken  dumb, 

And  the  large  brain  all  empty  of  device ; 

And  the  keen  flashing  of  those  earnest  eyes 
Has  suffered  now  a dim  and  last  eclipse ; 

The  listening  crowds  are  gone,  no  more  to  come 
And  hang  upon  the  music  of  those  lips. 

Dust  overspreads  the  crimson  and  the  gold 
That  blazoned  royalty  in  glittering  state ; 

'An  ashen  pallor  sleeps  in  every  fold 
Of  the  rich  purple  that  enrobed  the  great. 

The  heavens  are  hidden  by  a rayless  night, 

To  the  clear  vision  which  could  read  afar 
Through  rifts  of  cloud,  by  faintly  gleaming  light, 

The  wondrous  lore  of  planet  and  of  star. 

The  cunning  hands  are  utterly  bereft 
Of  touch  and  guidance.  Pencil,  chisel,  pen, 

No  more  shall  feel  the  grasp  whose  skill  has  left 
Traces  of  might.  Time  scarce  may  hope  again 


BE  A TH. 


113 


To  match  in  all  the  future.  On  the  wall 
Bloom  the  rich  colors,  while  the  painter  lies 
In  everlasting  paleness.  You  shall  call 
To  the  cold  statue,  and  its  ears  and  eyes 
Shall  note  your  presence,  sooner  than  the  one 
Who  freed  the  living  semblance  from  the  stone. 

And  though  the  page  of  Poesy  ring  out 
With  a perpetual  music ; and  the  shout 
Of  Youth  and  Passion  swell  the  choral  hymn; 

Y et  hushed  forever,  motionless  each  limb, 

With  pulseless  heart,  in  gloom  profound,  he  rests 
Whose  slightest  word  throbs  in  unnumbered  breasts. 
And  Beauty  lies  disfigured  into  dust ; 

And  Grace  is  jointless  in  the  frozen  mould  ; 

And  Love  and  Joy  have  perished  in  the  cold; 

And  all  hath  lulled  beyond  a passing  gust 
Or  breath  to  stir  the  stillness.  And  the  throng 
That  used  to  gaze  in  rapture,  till  the  sight 
Ached  with  the  charm  of  Beauty,  as  along 
The  crowded  ways  in  queenly  state  she  went, 

Has  vanished  in  the  darkness  of  that  night 
Which  broods  beneath  the  final  monument. 

All  hopes,  ambitions,  plans,  and  swift  desires, 

All  dreams,  illusions,  fantasies,  and  fears, 

10*  H 


114 


BE  A TH. 


That  move  the  blood  with  warmth  of  quickening  fires, 
Or,  to  the . cheek’s  rose,  give  the  dew  of  tears ; 

All  wit  and  wisdom,  passion,  beauty,  art, 

That  fill  the  head  and  throb  the  pulsing  heart, 

And  bring  the  plaudits  of  ten  thousand  hands 
Clapping  their  praises ; each  and  all  of  these 
Are  strangely  ended.  And  the  actor  stands, 

With  hard  achievement,  or  with  gift  of  ease, 

Like  him  of  old,  within  the  circling  space 
Of  Roman  Amphitheatre,  who  stood, 

The  gladiator,  grand  in  attitude, 

Each  posture  firm,  strength  matched  and  blent  with 
grace, 

Dealing  such  blows  as  took  away  the  breath 
In  the  beholder ; and  still  winning  praise 
After  his  might  had  felt  the  touch  of  death, 

And  the  quick,  resolute  eye  began  to  glaze, 

Till  the  swift  stroke  relaxed  his  sinewy  limbs, 

And  he  was  deaf  to  thunderous  shouts  and  calls. 

So,  for  the  Swiftness  of  the  stroke  that  dims 
The  eye  to  sight,  the  ear  to  praiseful  hymns, 

All  that  is  human  acts  and  stands  and  falls ; 

So  round  the  Great,  the  Beautiful,  the  Wise, 


BE  A TH. 


115 


While  shouts  reverberate  and  loud  plaudits  rise, 

The  circling  crowd  grows  dark  and  reels  and,  swims ; 
And  while  the  show  and  joy  are  at  their  height, 
Death  comes  and  brings  the  silence  and  the  night. 


116 


THE  MIRACLE . 


THE  MIRACLE. 

"I  TINE  be  the  Spirit  that  has  depth  of  feeling, 

JJJL  »pjie  ]1i(j(jeil  sense  0f  things  to  touch  and  prove ; 

Then  outward  form  shall  be  the  sign  revealing 
The  inward  power  and  grace  of  Life  and  Love. 

Then  wait  I not,  expectant  of  some  wonder, 

To  awe  and  thrill,  to  shake  and  startle  me, 

The  cloud,  the  flash,  the  earthquake,  and  the  thunder, 
Before  I pause  and  bow  the  adoring  knee. 

No  more  I dream  of  toilsome  pilgrimages, 

Nor  seek  devotion  at  some  distant  shrine ; 

No  more  I grope  my  way  to  dusty  ages : 

Each  place  is  holy ; every  hour  divine. 

God  is  not  idle  since  the  prime  creation, 

The  Lord  of  Yesterday  and  nebulous  dawn ; 

But  lives  and  works,  in  endless  revelation 
Of  majesty  undimmed  and  un withdrawn. 


THE  MIRACLE. 


117 


Above,  beneath,  around  me  ever  moveth 

The  Power  that  ancient  Prophet  felt  and  saw ; 

The  Might  that  liveth  ever,  ever  loveth ; 

God  present  iu  the  everlasting  Law. 

In  swelling  seed,  in  leaf  and  bud  and  blossom, 

The  light  and  life  that  cheer  my  daily  walk, 

I read  a Gospel  that  can  thrill  my  bosom 

Not  less  than  the  fossil  Scriptures  of  the  Rock. 

Each  forest-bough,  with  beauty  bathed  and  flooded 
When  Spring-time  bourgeons  through  the  quicken- 
ing bark, 

Is  wondrous  as  the  Almond  Branch  that  budded 
Within  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  Ark. 

Touching  the  earth  with  reverent  step  and  lowly, 

I feel  the  violets  stirring  in  the  sod, 

And  lo,  the  ground  on  which  I stand  is  holy, 

With  the  secret  power,  the  germinant  life  of  God. 

And  where  the  green  breaks  into  flame  of  roses, 

Till  all  the  garden  learns  to  glow  and  blush, 

The  unconsuming  blaze,  to  me,  discloses 

God  present,  as  of  old,  in  the  Burning  Bush. 


118 


THE  MIRACLE . 


My  soul  discerns  tlie  shadow  and  the  splendor, 

The  Arm  outstretched  in  Might  and  the  High  Hand 

And  signs  and  wonders  compass  and  attend  her, 

At  every  footstep  toward  the  Promised  Land. 

The  heavens  declare,  each  day,  the  olden  Story, 

And  Earth  reveals  some  marvellous  hint  or  trace; 

The  cloud  becomes  a Pillar  of  Fire  and  Glory, 

And  Nature  but  another  Means  of  Grace. 

Thus  in  the  little  round  . of  the  diurnal, 

The  life  and  beauty  growing  at  my  feet, 

I see  the  Infinite  and  the  Eternal, 

Who  doth  the  ceaseless  Miracle  repeat. 


OUR  KNOWLEDGE  ALL  IS  GIRT  ABOUT . 119 


OUR  KNOWLEDGE  ALL  IS  GIRT 
ABOUT. 

/^AUR  Knowledge  all  is  girt  about 

^ By  ignorance  and  shadowy  lines, 

By  that  which  Science  makes  not  out, 

•And  Law  to  Fate  and  Chance  resigns; 

To  Fate  and  Chance,  or  to  a Will 
Divine,  unknown,  without  caprice, 

That  acts,  and  moulds  serenely  still 
The  universe  by  its  decrees. 

Our  Rules  afford  a guidance  here 
For  narrow  walks  of  Use  and  Art; 

But  what  shall  make  the  riddles  clear, 
Which  Nature  asks  of  every  heart? 

Forth  from  the  realms  of  dusky  night, 

With  Childhood’s  piteous  blank  we  come; 

We  spell  and  scrawl  some  words  aright, 
Then  all  is  dark,  and  we  are  dumb. 


120  OUR  KNOWLEDGE  ALL  IS  GIRT  ABOUT. 


The  Law  of  Science  and  the  Rule 
Of  Art  soon  fail  to  shape  our  course; 

We  need  a higher,  wider  school, 

* Where  Faith  and  Hope  have  play  and  force ; 

Where  Words  become  divine  Commands, 

And  Reverence  bows  before  the  Unknown, 
And  Prayer  uplifts  its  trusting  hands 
Before  a Heavenly  Father’s  throne. 


A MIST  OF  BUDS. 


121 


A MIST  OF  BUDS. 

A MIST  of  buds  is  upon  the  woods, 

And  the  orchard-boughs  are  clouds  of  bloom ; 
The  garden  shows  the  red  of  the  rose, 

And  the  jasmine  clambers  by  my  room. 

The  sunshine  lies  where  the  violet’s  eyes 
Look  softly  out  from  the  leaves  of  green ; 
And  the  shadow  flits  across  by  fits 

When  the  sailing  clouds  come  in  between. 

The  lily  o’  the  vale  now  scents  the  gale 
With  the  fragrance  of  her  balmy  breath ; 
And  the  daisy  dots  with  starry  spots 

The  heaven  of  sward  that  spreads  beneath. 

Each  bulb  now  thrills  to  the  warmth  that  fills 
The  Earth,  as  the  golden  moments  run ; 

Each  leaf  and  flower  drinks  dew  and  shower, 

And  throbs  to  the  pulses  of  the  sun. 

11 


122 


A MIST  OF  B UBS. 


The  hours  are  fair,  and  all  the  air 
Glows  with  a beauty  scarce  revealed ; 

?T  is  the  rose-bud’s  hint  of  the  rose’s  tint, 

That  charms  the  most  when  half-concealed. 

Sweet  time  of  the  Year,  abide  thou  here  ; 

Tarry  awhile,  fly  not  so  soon; 

Sweet  month  of  May,  idle  thou  by  the  way, 
Haste  not  along,  nor  melt  to  June. 

O Season  swTeet,  pass  not  so  fleet; 

There  are  other  growths  that  fain  would  start 
On  stalk  and  bough,  what  Hopes  bud  now 
In  the  young  Garden  of  the  Heart. 


D U T Y. 


123 


DUTY. 

TTOW  heavenly  sweet  the  music  swells 
From  steeple-tops  and  towers, 

When  Duty  strikes  her  golden  bells 
To  mark  the  passing  hours. 

By  day  the  chiming  sounds  are  heard, 
Though  faint,  yet  softly  clear ; 

And  every  pulse  of  life  is  stirred 
By  the  attentive  ear. 

And  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 

The  sky  is  filled  afar, 

As  if  the  tones  were  rays  of  light 
Throbbed  by  a steadfast  star. 

Serene  to  him  the  moments  run, 

By  dusk  and  early  dawn, 

By  moon  and  stars  and  shining  sun, 

Who  hears  those  bells  sound  on. 


124 


SONG  OF  THE  WATER. 


SONG  OF  THE  WATER. 

TSTITH  pattering  feet  I dance  and  beat 

On  the  roof;  I dash  on  the  window-pane 
From  the  foaming  spout  I bubble  out, 

When  fall  the  torrents  of  the  Rain. 

The  Cloud  is  mine;  I gleam  and  shine; 

By  sunset’s  glow  to  flame  I turn ; 

The  morning’s  mist  grows  amethyst 

And  gold  when  the  East  begins  to  burn. 

I trail  in  Fog  by  marsh  and  bog; 

With  gray  I skirt  the  mountain’s  brow; 

The  valley  I fill,  I hide  the  hill, 

And  none  can  find  the  way  I go. 

On  leaf  and  spray  I glitter  and  play 
In  beaded  Pearls  and  Drops  of  Dew; 

For  me  the  rose  looks  up  and  glows, 

And  the  violet  takes  a fairer  hue. 


SONG  OF  THE  WATER. 


125 


With  welcome  Rain  I bathe  the  plain ; 

I feed  the  tree,  the  flower,  the  grass; 

And  while  I bring  new  life,  each  thing 
Smiles  sweetly  on  me  as  I pass. 

In  fitful  mood  I pour  a Flood, 

And  ruin  the  works  that  man  has  wrought ; 
I swing  the  flail  of  the  pelting  Hail, 

And  thrash  the  harvest  into  naught. 


In  the  Rivulet  I whirl,  and  set 
The  pebbles  to  a merry  sound  ; 

Adown  the  steep  I plunge  and  leap, 

And  break  to  mist  ere  I touch  the  ground. 


Through  thicket  I creep ; in  Swamp  I sleep 
I tinkle  down  the  silent  glen ; 

I haunt  the  woods  and  solitudes ; 

And  I visit  the  crowded  marts  of  men. 

By  lazy  Creek  I course,  and  seek 
A way  to  the  swifter,  broader  flood ; 

I linger  where  the  flowers  are  rare, 

And  sunbeams  glimmer  through  the  wood. 


126 


SONG  OF  THE  WATER. 


In  the  rapid  tide  of  River  I glide, 

Past  mountain,  city,  castled  steep; 

With  ceaseless  flow  I move,  and  go 
To  lose  myself  in  the  Ocean  deep. 

I pause,  and  make  in  tranquil  Lake 
A picture  of  the  sky  and  shore; 

I mirror  true  the  heaven  of  blue, 

And  pave  my  depths  with  the  starry  floor. 

I unveil  my  face  in  the  desolate  place, 

And  lo,  the  wild  begins  to  smile ; 

To  the  desert  I show  what  bloom  may  blow 
By  the  fruitful  courses  of  the  Nile. 

With  onward  flow  I sweep  and  grow; 

I whiten  with  the  sails  unfurled; 

I carry  the  prize  of  argosies, 

And  mark  my  path  on  the  map  of  the  world. 

The  waves  I bear,  have  sounded  where 
The  far-off  years  and  centuries  shine ; 

What  memories  teem  beside  the  stream 
Of  the  Jordan,  Tiber,  Po,  and  Rhine! 


SONG  OF  THE  WATER. 


127 


From  Fount  I gush  ; through  gorge  I rush, 

I curve  through  meadow  green  and  cool ; 

By  a thousand  isles  I break  to  smiles, 

And  I slumber  in  the  darkling  Pool. 

I work  with  a will ; I drive  the  mill, 

I grind,  I spin,  I weave,  I pound ; 

In  the  forge  I smite,  and  the  furnace  grows  white 
While  the  dripping  wheel  goes  round  and  round. 

I shake  the  rocks  with  earthquake -shocks, 
When  over  Niagara’s  ledge  I fall, 

With  Cataract-roar  I dash,  and  pour 
My  thunder  round  and  over  all. 

When  the  dyke  I break,  what  havoc  I make! 

The  plain  I change  to  Gulf  and  Bay; 

The  Delta  I build ; I enrich  the  field ; 

And  I slowly  eat  the  coast  away. 

Along  the  shore  I beat  and  roar 

Where  the  Breakers  whiten  in  the  storm; 
Beneath  my  foam  I hide  the  home 
Of  many  a vanished  face  and  form. 


128 


SONG  OF  THE  WATER. 


In  sunken  caves  are  countless  graves, 

Where  I bury  the  Dead  when  the  ship  goes  down ; 

Full  well  they  keep  a silent  sleep, 

Nor  heed  when  storms  are  loudest  blown. 

By  night  and  day  I rock  and  sway 
In  the  Tidal  wave  from  pole  to  pole 

Toward  Moon  and  Sun  I rise  and  run, 

And  I lift  the  ship  across  the  Shoal. 

Where  the  Gulf-Stream  takes  its  course,  and  breaks 
From  tropic  heat  to  realms  of  snow, 

I cleave  my  way  through  the  Ocean -spray, 

And  carry  a Climate  with  my  flow. 

Where  the  palm-tree  stands  in  Eastern  lands, 
The  camel  scents  my  breath  afar : 

Beneath  the  sun  of  the  torrid  zone 
What  life  to  burning  lips  I bear! 

In  the  mountain- glen  I freeze,  and  then 
To  the  Glacier’s  mighty  mass  I grow: 

By  cliff  and  steep  I crawl  and  creep, 

And  push  the  crag  on  the  vale  below. 


SONG  OF  THE  WATER. : 


129 


From  the  frozen  North  I issue  forth. 

To  show  what  the  Winter’s  cold  hath  done ; 

I flash  and  gleam  in  the  Ocean-stream 
As  I lead  my  Icebergs  toward  the  sun. 

Each  peak  and  spire  glints  frost  and  fire ; 

Through  chasm  and  arch  the  streamlets  play ; 
I lean  and  wheel,  I topple  and  reel ; 

I shiver  and  crash  and  melt  away. 

I scatter  my  spray  where  the  Fountains  play, 

I murmur,  I prattle,  I talk,  I sing; 

From  the  rock  I burst  to  cool  the  thirst 
Of  many  a faint  and  famished  thing. 

I ripple,  I flash,  I eddy,  I dash  ; 

To  murmur,  to  music,  to  thunder  I break:  — 
Of  what  avail  are  rudder  and  sail, 

Where  the  Maelstrom’s  seething  whirl  I make  ? 

In  Iceland’s  soil  I bubble  and  boil; 

In  the  Geyser’s  fitful  jet  I rise ; 

From  depths  profound  I shake  the  ground, 

And  veil  in  a steaming  cloud  the  skies. 

I 


130 


SONG  OF  THE  WATER. 


I rest,  I sleep  in  caverns  deep, 

I glide,  I fall,  I leap,  I run  ; 

I grope  my  way  to  the  gates  of  Day 

Through  caves  that  never  have  felt  the  sun. 

On  the  Autumn  leaves,  my  finger  weaves 
The  fairy  net-work  of  the  Frost, 

And  a thousand  dyes  enchant  the  eyes, 

Where  the  delicate  lines  have  touched  and  crossed. 

In  Snow  I fall  and  whiten  all, 

When  wintry  tempests  howl  and  blow, 

And  warm  I keep  the  seeds  that  sleep, 

For  Spring-time’s  stir  and  Summer’s  show. 

On  the  babbling  lip  of  the  brook  I slip 
The  seal  of  silence  in  a trice; 

And  the  rushing  tide  of  the  river  wide 
I bridge  with  the  masonry  of  Ice. 

A magic  feat  in  the  form  of  Sleet, 

At  times,  I work  in  the  realms  of  air; 

And  the  trees  stand  drest  in  a jewelled  vest 
Or  crash  with  the  burden  that  they  bear. 


SONG  OF  THE  WATER. 


131 


From  eaves  and  edge,  from  rocky  ledge, 

I hang  the  slender  Icicle  down  ; 

From  the  cavern’s  top  I drip,  and  drop 
The  Column  and  Shaft  of  solid  stone. 

With  change  of  breath,  now  life,  now  death, 
Now  sweetness,  now  decay  I bring ; 

Where  the  Torrent  pours,  where  the  Ocean  roars 
Is  heard  the  varied  Song  I sing. 


132  TO  THE  NIGHT-BLOOMING  CEREUS . 


TO  THE  NIGHT-BLOOMING  CEREUS. 

MIRACLE  of  Beauty,  why  dost  thou, 
Quickened  and  nourished  by  the  warmth  and  light, 

Hide  from  the  Sun  the  lustre  of  thy  brow, 

And  show  thy  splendor  only  to  the  Night? 

Fearest  thou  lest  the  garish  glare  of  day 
Disclose  some  fleck  upon  thy  snowy  cup? 

Or  is  it  pride,  when  other  flowers  are  gay, 

That  makes  thee  hoard  thy  peerless  beauty  up  ? 

Or,  out  of  kind  regard  and  modesty, 

Withdrawest  thou  until  the  day  is  done, 

That  lilies  may  not  die  of  jealousy, 

Nor  roses  blush  to  see  themselves  outshone? 

Or  dost  thou  choose,  for  thy  selectest  hour. 

The  season  when  the  stars  look  down  on  earth, 

That  they  may  know,  by  thy  resplendent  power, 
What  beauty  in  this  lowly  place  has  birth? 


TO  THE  NIGHT-BLOOMING  CEBEUS.  133 


Through  all  the  livelong  day,  like  a fair  bride 
Who  could  not  quit  her  coy  and  maiden  ways, 
When  the  night  comes,  thou  drawest  veils  aside, 
And  then  the  dusk  grows  lustrous  with  thy  gaze. 

But  why  so  transient?  Tarry  till  the  dawn. 

Or  dreadest  thou  to  stay  and  be  despised, 
Knowing  that  what  is  often  looked  upon, 

Is  apt,  alas ! to  be  but  lightly  prized  ? 

Then  let  me  view  thee,  touched  by  no  regret, 

And  bathe  me  with  the  fragrance  of  thy  breath  ; 
Shine  in  thy  rich  array  while  I forget 

How  near  approach  thy  splendor  and  thy  death. 

O short-lived  Glory ! most  transcendent  Bloom ! 

The  beauty  of  thy  flower  is  more  to  me, 

Because  thou  wilt  be  sought  for  in  the  gloom, 

And  most,  because  of  thy  fragility. 

12 


134 


TWO  PICTURES . 


TWO  PICTURES. 

~VU OUTH  little  cares  for  cloud  and  cold ; 

The  world  is  not  yet  dark  and  old . 
He  careth  naught  for  snow  and  sleet, 

The  warm  blood  tingling  in  his  feet. 

His  cheeks  are  rose,  cherry  his  lips, 

Life  pulses  down  to  his  finger-tips. 

The  storm  beats  hard  on  the  window-pane, 
But  he  would  feel  the  wind  and  rain. 

All  Seasons  serve  him ; all  the  Hours ; 

May  brings  her  buds,  and  June  her  flowers 
The  Autumn  brings  its  fruits  for  him, 

And  Winter  crusts  with  ice  the  stream. 

Ah,  while  the  Heart  within  is  May, 

He  never  knows  a dreary  day; 

And  all  the  round  of  all  the  Year 
Is  only  song  and  merry  cheer. 


TWO  PICTURES. 


135 


Age  creeps  beside  the  hearth,  and  sits 
Close  wrapt  to  warm  his  frozen  wits. 

He  shudders  at  the  sleet  and  snow, 

And  when  the  storm  begins  to  blow, 

He  blesses  God  for  the  window-pane 
That  keeps  away  the  wind  and  rain; 

And  he  stirs  the  fire,  and  calls  it  cold, 
Because  his  blood  is  slow  and  old. 

No  Seasons  serve  him,  no  day’s  sun  ; 

For  him  the  Year  is  all  undone; 

The  rose,  to  him,  doth  only  show 
Like  something  seen  long,  long  ago. 

The  Summers  now  are  pale  and  mute; 

No  juice  is  in  the  Autumn’s  fruit ; 

The  evening  sun  shines  dim,  and  hark ! 
He  cries,  “Bring  candles,  it  grows  dark.” 


♦ 


136 


USE. 


USE. 

X)EHOLD  how  Ministry  and  Use 
Do  beautify  the  humblest  things, 
And  quicken  them,  and  give  them  wings 
To  soar  toward  higher  worlds  and  choose 
New  realms  of  Being.  And  see  how 
The  Heavenly  can  stoop  down  and  bow 
To  lowly  services,  and  so 
Transform  itself,  and  rise  and  grow 
Thrice  beautiful.  Shall  any  say 
That  the  Atom,  lying  hid  away 
In  deepest  earth,  beyond  the  reach 
Of  piercing  root  and  rain  and  light, 

Or  pick  and  lamp  of  miner  which 
Further  invade  the  realms  of  night, 

Is  lost  and  dead,  and  has  no  use 
Or  nice  relationship,  whereby 
It  shoots  athwart  the  burying  mould 
A power  and  presence,  and  makes  bold 


USE . 


137 


To  show  itself  to  sun  and  sky? 

What  though  it  thicken  not  the  juice 
Of  root,  nor  take  a sudden  walk 
Toward  light  and  glory,  in  the  stalk 
Of  growing  plant,  it  is  not  loose 
From  Law  and  Life;  nor  is  it  hid 
Wholly  from  influence. 

For  the  floor, 

Which  air  and  sunshine  cover  o’er 
With  verdure,  and  where  pyramid, 
Temple,  and  dome  take  stable  stand, 
Rests  on  the  central  atom.  And 
Each  flower  that  lifts  a heavenward  face 
Is  shaped  and  curved  to  sweeter  grace 
By  the  far  attraction.  There  is  Might, 
Forth  going  from  the  silent  night 
Of  the  world’s  centre,  that  has  force 
To  urge  and  guide  the  starry  course 
Of  planet  round  the  distant  sun. 

Shall  that  be  held  as  dead  and  blind 
Which  lays  foundation,  and  can  find 
A path  of  light  wherein  to  run 
Serenely  onward?  In  the  deep 
Of  Being,  is  there  aught  asleep 
12* 


USE. 


Or  utterly  idle,  when  ’t  is  found 
How  all  is  interlinked  and  bound 
In  help  and  love  together?  Go, 

Ask  every  flower  and  blade  of  grass, 
Each  process  swift  as  light,  or. slow 
As  geologic  changes ; pass 
The  round  of  days  and  years,  and  climb 
Where  cyclic  ages  mark  the  time 
For  God  to  work  by  ; you  shall  see 
Nothing  that  was  or  is  to  be, 

Without  relation  and  a tie 
That  holds  together  low  and  high, 

And  earth  and  heaven. 

Follow  a seed, 

Upborne  by  breath  of  sowing  wind 
To  where  it  may  repose  and  feed 
0n  dew  and  darkened  mould,  and  find 
Quiet  and  nurture.  From  the  cope 
Of  heaven,  behold  the  rays  that  slope 
And  shine  toward  earth,  until  they  rest 
Brightly  and  warmly  on  the  breast 
Of  Nature.  Have  they  power  to  stir 
The  answering  life  that  sleeps  in  her? 

Or  do  they  slant  and  idly  fall, 


USE. 


139 


A wasted  effluence  from  afar, 

To  gild  with  funeral  pomp  the  ball 
That  whirls  and  sweeps  round  central  star? 
The  invisible  pulses  of  the  Heat 
Enter  the  soil,  and  throb  and  beat 
Round  the  house  of  the  drowsy  germ. 

They  gently  knock  at  the  little  door ; 

They  open  the  windows;  they  shake  the  door 
Whereon  Life  sleeps,  and  put  a term 
To  dreamful  rest.  Then  Light  doth  wait 
Attendant  on  the  waking  form. 

The  Sun,  that  first  could  only  warm, 

Now  sheds  a splendor  round  the  gate 
Whence  Life  forth  issues. 

In  what  state, 

From  down  among  the  twisted  roots, 

The  stem  uplifts  its  shaft,  and  puts 

A fair  shape  forward,  to  be  fed 

And  nursed  by  sunshine.  What  was  dead 

And  dark  and  formless,  hath  become 

Alive  by  Uses,  and  doth  bloom 

All  fresh  and  vernal.  Smell  the  mould ; 

It  is  no  longer  dank  and  old. 

The  countless  soft  and  blackened  grains, 


140 


USE. 


Wet  by  the  dews,  dissolved  by  rains, 

Have  crept  within  the  roots,  and  slipped 
Along  the  stalk,  and  found  their  way 
To  leaf  and  bud,  and  shine  to-day 
In  floweret’s  chalice  dewy-lipped, 

Blooming  and  beautiful.  ' The  rose 
Is  earth  transfigured,  matched  and  blent 
With  starry  presence  ; and  it  shows 
The  high  alliance.  What  is  meant 
By  the  lily’s  spire  of  snowy  bells, 

But  that  the  flower  should  symbolize 
The  purity  which  flows  and  wells 
Up  from  the  earth,  when  smiling  skies 
Would  wed  the  lowliest?  It  makes  haste 
To  celebrate  the  marriage-feast, 

And  shakes  its  happy  bells,  and  swings, 

A radiant  joy,  on  the  wind’s  wings. 

Dust  turns  to  sweetness  round  the  spot 
Whence  growth  uprises.  Earth  is  fraught 
With  Life,  and  breathes  an  odorous  breath. 
Transformed  by  service,  Age  and  Death 
Undo  themselves,  and  run  the  round 
Of  Youth  and  Beauty,  and  again 
Climb  to  the  sun,  and  shape  the  ground 


USE. 


141 


To  forms  that  feel,  in  every  vein, 

A swift  pulsation. 

Lo,  the  Light, 

That  ministers  in  robe  of  white, 

Is  changed,  by  what  it  serves,  to  red, 
Blue,  purple,  violet,  and  puts  on 
A glorious  garment  and  a crown, 

Where  bud  or  blossom  shows  its  head, 
And  shines  and  flashes  many-hued, 

By  garden-walk  or  pathless  wood. 

O miracle  of  Wonders!  Who, 

Before  the  trial,  would  have  thought 
That  growing  seed  had  power  to  do 
Honor  unto  the  Sun,  which  brought 
It  out  of  darkness : that  the  bud, 

By  sunshine  kindly  warmed  and  nursed, 
Slipping  from  out  its  sheathing,  should 
Have  force  to  shatter  light,  and  burst, 
A winged  splendor,  on  the  air,. 

Making  the  day  divinely  fair, 

And  sunshine  richer? 

Let  this  teach 

How  far  the  Lowliest  thing  may  reach 
Forward  and  upward  by  its  Use, 


142 


USE. 


And  touch  high  ends,  and  so  infuse 
Fresh  Life  and  Power;  and  how  the  Least, 
Sweetly  and  livingly  increased, 

And  by  the  Greatest  served,  may  be 
Source  of  new  Honor,  and  may  give, 

In  turn  for  loving  Ministry, 

As  much,  or  more  than  it  doth  receive. 


TIME,  THAT  SHAPED . 


143 


TIME,  THAT  SHAPED  THE  SWELLING 

BUDS. 

miME,  that  shaped  the  swelling  buds, 
Plumped  the  grape  and  filled  the  grain, 

Greened  the  fields  and  leafy  woods, 

Must  undo  it  all  again. 

Every  trace  of  bloom  is  shed, 

On  the  vine  is  not  a grape, 

Fields  are  bare  and  leaves  are  dead, 

Nothing  maketh  its  escape. 

Time,  that  gave  a touch  of  grace 
Unto  growing  limb,  and  then 

Rounded  forth  the  perfect  face, 

Must  undo  it  all  again. 

Through  the  locks  of  gold  and  brown 
Slip  the  shining  threads  of  gray; 

Form  and  fashion  tumble  down, 

Beauty  passeth  quite  away. 


144  TIM Ey  THAT  SHAPED. 

Thus  it  fares  with  flower  and  leaf, 
Thus  it  also  fares  with  men ; 
Though  the  miracle  be  brief, 

Time  repeats  it  all  again. 


WORDS  FOR  THE  HEART. 


145 


WORDS  FOR  THE  HEART. 

TIT  H ERE  is  the  thrill  of  gladness,  whefe  the  joy 
With  which  the  early  days  and  years  swept  by? 
Is  bliss  the  dream  of  Childhood?  Shall  the  boy 
Alone  know  rapture?.  Must  the  azure  sky 
O’ercloud  itself  before  the  light  of  noon 
Hath  shed  its  brightness,  O how  swift  • and  soon 
To  set  in  mist  and  darkness?  Was  it  meant 
That  we  must  linger  in  a low  content 
When  we  outstep  our  Youth?  Not  to  repine, 

But  drift  along,  and  patiently  resign 
Ourselves  to  Fate;  is  that  the  only  doom, 

When  once  the  flower  of  Life  hath  dropt  its  bloom 
Into  the  stream  that  runneth  by  its  root  ? 

And  shall  the  babbling  rill  that  leaped  along 
Change  to  a sluggish  Lethe,  and  the  song 
Of  every  glancing  wavelet  straight  be  mute  ? 

All  bliss  foregone,  shall  we  but  ask  for  peace, 

And  wait,  as  best  we  may,  the  long  release  ? 


13 


K 


146 


WORDS  FOR  THE  HEART . 


Such  destiny,  or  worse,  before  us  lies, 

Unless  our  Manhood  grows  as  Childhood  dies : 
Unless,  for  all  the  illusions  of  the  dawn, 

We  find  a joy  in  Knowledge,  and  the  Truth 
Be  more  than  day-dreams.  O,  if  we  are  drawn 
Thus  unto  beauty,  we  renew  our  youth. 

We  find  a rest  in  action,  that  no  ease, 

With  all  its  drowsy  reveries,  can  reach. 

We  find  a life  in  use,  more  nice  to  please, 

Than  hopes  or  wishes.  If  we  do  but  teach 
Ourselves,  by  labor  toward  some  worthy  end, 

The  bliss  that  lurks  in  Duty  and  makes  sweet 
All  toils  and  losses ; then  do  we  defeat 
The  shocks  of  Time;  then  do  we  sway  and  bend 
Events  to  serve  us;  then  each  change  is  best, 
And  leads  us  forth  from  losses  unto  gains ; 

And  Love  transmutes  our  failures  and  our  pains 
To  joys  and  triumphs,  as  we  pass  to  rest. 


o on. 


147 


GOD. 


HAT  in  the  Transient  steadfast  doth  endure, 


Centre  of  movement,  pathway  fixed  and  sure  ; 
What  acts  where  all  is  still,  and  in  the  storm 
Gives  to  the  whirlwind  law,  the  torrent  form ; 

What  is  in  Motion  and  yet  changeth  not, 

In  Life  and  hath  no  gain  of  Consciousness, 

In  Death  and  doth  not  fail  nor  pass  to  less ; 

What  underlies  the  Thinker  and  the  Thought, 

And  with  all  growth  yet  never  groweth  old  ; 

What  is  in  Flame  yet  suffers  not  of  heat, 

And  in  the  Frost  yet  hath  no  touch  of  cold ; 

What  parts  to  atoms  yet  remains  complete, 

Binds  All  in  One,  and  makes  the  perfect  Whole ; 
What  filleth  Space,  yet  hath  no  shape  nor  bound, 
What  dwells  alike  in  Silence  and  in  Sound, 

The  harmony  of  both,  the  Life,  the  Soul 
Of  what  is  worthiest  in  you  and  me, 

Law,  Order,  Duty,  Love,  the  sweet  Unrest 
That  will  not  tarry  till  it  reach  the  Best, 

That,  that  is  God,  had  we  the  eyes  to  see. 


148 


GOD. 


What  is  V the  Blossom  yet  is  fully  blown, 

What  in  the  Ruin  yet  is  not  o’erthrown, 

What  in  the  Seed  forth  reaches  unto  fruit, 

What  in  the  Tree  is  more  than  leaf  or  root, 

What  in  the  Present  quickeneth  all  the  Past 
And  by  prevision  holds  the  Future  fast,  * 

What  stirs  in  the  Hours  yet  hath  no  time  nor  date, 
What  under  Form  is  indeterminate, 

What  veils  can  no  way  hide  nor  masks  disguise, 
What  lens  can  never  show  to  mortal  eyes, 

What  all  may  feel  yet  none  have  understood, 

The  Strong,  the  True,  the  Beautiful,  the  Good, 

The  Soul  of  Reason,  Conscience,  Wisdom,  Right, 
The  Darkness  bosomed  in  the  blaze  of  Light, 

The  Mystery  lying  out  of  human  reach, 

The  Marvel  that  we  may  not  set  to  speech, 

The  Thought  that  rises  where  our  Knowledge  ends, 
The  Pulse  that  stirs  us  when  our  Worship  blends 
Awe,  Aspiration,  Sorrow,  Praise  and  Prayer ; 

That,  that  is  God,  and  we  may  find  Him  there. 


DE  PRO  FUND  IS. 


149 


DE  PPOFUNDIS. 


"'\T O more  for  me  the  golden  sun  is  shining  in  the  sky, 
For  me  no  more  the  brooklet  runs  in  murmuring 
music  by ; 

The  Past  is  not  beyond  regret,  but  all  beyond  repair, 
For  naught  shall  give  me  back  again  the  treasure 
buried  there. 


What  opiates  of  the  drowsy  East  can  lull  the  soul’s 
unrest, 

And  bring  again  the  slumber  sweet,  and  banish  from 
the  breast 

Life’s  weariness  and  ache  and  void  ? ’T  is  Lethe’s 
wave  alone 

Can  heal  the  ill,  and  ease  the  pain,  and  silence  every 
moan. 


The  sights  and  sounds  of  other  days  still  linger  in  my 
thought, 

The  shapes  and  echoes  of  a world  that  else  had  passed 
to  naught ; 


13* 


150 


DB  PROFUNDIS . 


My  heart  is  with  the  Far-Away,  and  dreams  are  more 
to  me 

Than  all  the  Near-at-Hand  can  show,  or  waking  eyes 
can  see. 

With  lightsome  step  I climbed  the  steep  and  touched 
the  mountain’s  height, 

The  pleasant  valley  lay  beneath,  the  clouds  were  fringed 
with  light ; 

Now  from  my  vision  all  is  shut  by  cliff  and  beetling 
crag, 

As  down  the  other  side  of  life,  reluctant  feet  I drag. 

O heavy  load ! O weary  way ! when  Y outh  and  Hope 
are  gone, 

And  toward  the  silence  and  the  night,  I still  must 
journey  on ; 

Yet,  with  the  storm  and  wreck  around,  the  path  may 
grow  so  drear, 

That  night  and  silence,  at  the  last,  shall  be  how  sweet 
and  dear ! 


SONG  OF  THE  ROSE. 


151 


SONG  OF  THE  ROSE. 

T WOULD  not  overlook 
The  silent  winter-brook, 

To  view  my  sadness  in  the  frosted  glass; 

But  rather,  to  the  tune 

Of  all  the  waves  of  June, 

Swiftly  and  sweetly  let  my  being  pass. 

I do  not  choo'se  to  cling 

To  the  stem,  a withered  thing, 

The  sport  and  mock  of  every  idle  gust ; 

I do  not  choose  to  wait 

Till  from  my  high  estate, 

By  slow  degrees,  I lapse  again  to  dust. 

What  would  it  boot  to  stay 

Till  bird  had  flown  away, 

And  till  the  bee,  that  comes  and  sips  and  hovers. 

Would  lightly  pass  me  by? 

Nay,  rather  let  me  die 
Than  feel  the  sharp  neglect  of  all  my  lovers. 


152 


SONG  OF  THE  ROSE, 


I would  not  lag  behind, 

Bearing  a weary  mind, 

And  thinking  of  the  days  whose  light  had  past 
Lost  in  a sad  amaze, 

Still  thinking  of  the  days, 

The  happy,  happy  days  that  could  not  last. 

I do  not  care  to  see 
Pale  Change  awaiting  me; 

To  watch  the  fading  of  my  perfect  bloom : 

I do  not  care  to  go, 

With  lingering  step  and  slow, 

And  follow  all  my  beauty  to  the  tomb. 

I feel  no  restless  rage 
For  bulk  and  wasting  age; 

Not  large  extent  of  space  or  time  be  mine: 
Mine  be  the  fairest  leaf, 

The  sweetest  hour,  though  brief, 

The  little  cup,  the  moment  all  divine. 

What  though  my  life  be  done 
Before  the  set  of  sun ; 

I reign  in  queenly  splendor  while  I live, 


SONG  OF  THE  ROSE. 


153 


Nor  suffer  the  disgrace 
Of  altered  state  and  place, 

And  every  keen  rebuke  that  Time  can  give. 

Happy  in  all,  in  this 
Is  my  supremest  bliss, 

That  throbbing  pulse,  with  me,  hath  sudden  stop  ; 
And  that  on  Summer’s  breath 
I float  away  to  death, 

And  from  perfection  straight  to  nothing  drop. 

Because  I pass  so  fleet, 

A thousand  thronging  feet 
Do  come  and  haunt  my  presence  all  the  while  ; 
A thousand  loving  eyes 
Gaze  with  a fond  surprise, 

And  answer  back  my  beauty  with  a smile. 

And  O,  because  that  I 
Know  how  and  when  to  die, 

Nor  to  outstay  the  glory  of  my  prime, 

I live  and  breathe  along 
In  every  poet’s  song, 

And  keep  my  freshness  to  the  end  of  time. 


154 


THE  MILL-STREAM . 


THE  MILL-STREAM. 

STREAMLET,  why  delay  thy  step, 
Why  cease  thy  murmuring  flow? 

Is  it  to  mirror  heights  above, 

Within  the  depths  below? 

Wouldst  thou  be  grave  philosopher 
Instead  of  merry  clown, 

And,  by  reflection,  turn  the  world 
Completely  upside  down? 

Or  tarriest  thou  along  the  bank 
Where  flowers  are  thick  and  gay, 

In  very  love  of  idleness, 

And  out  of  heart  with  play  ? 

Where  is  the  music  of  thy  voice, 

The  heaving  of  thy  breast? 

Have  sounds  and  motions  lost  themselves 
In  ecstasy  of  rest? 


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THE  MILL-STREAM. 


155 


“Alas!”  the  Streamlet  answered  me, 
“Alas!  it  is  not  so: 

T is  not  to  image  heavenly  heights 
I quit  my  murmuring  flow. 

“Nor  is  it  out  of  idleness 

My  waves  are  hushed  and  still : 

I pause  that  I may  gather  strength 
To  turn  yon  clattering  mill. 

“ The  world  is  now  a work-day  world : 

0 happy  Days  of  Old, 

What  time  I ran  my  babbling  course. 
And  all  the  sands  were  gold. 

“ Then  all  was  mirth  and  jollity, 

And  rest  or  idle  play ; 

And  heaven  and  earth  together  kept 
An  endless  holiday. 

“I  tumbled  o’er  the  roots  of  trees, 

1 sang  and  danced  along; 

I rounded  many  a pebble  smooth 
To  the  music  of  my  song. 


156 


THE  MILL-STREAM. 


“ I dimpled  into  eddying  whirls, 

I shook  the  reedy  stalks, 

I kissed  the  leaning  wild-flower’s  lip, 

I laughed,  and  leaped  the  rocks. 

“ But  now,  though  I have  grown  so  deep 
And  widened  to  a flood, 

Gone  are  the  golden  sands ; I rest 
Upon  a bed  of  mud. 

“ I tangle  in  the  moss  and  weeds ; 

I linger  in  disgrace ; 

Scum  overspreads  me,  and  I ’ve  lost 
The  power  to  wash  my  face. 

“I  only  stir  when  turtles  slip 
From  off  the  rotting  logs : 

Heaven  help  me,  where  is  music  now? 

I am  a pond  for  frogs. 

“Time  brings  me  naught  but  sleep  and  tasks, 
A dreamless  sleep,  and  then 
I wake  to  work,  and  haste  to  help 
The  busy  tribes  of  men. 


THE  MILL-STREAM. 


157 


“ ’T  is  work,  and  only  weary  work, 
With  arm  and  hardened  fist; 

And  so,  as  I move  oceanward, 

I,  too,  must  grind  my  grist. 

“Then  let  the  heavy  wheel  go  round, 
And  let  the  mill  be  crammed ; 
What  care  I?  I was  happy  once, 
But  now,  alas  ! I ’m  dammed/’ 


14 


158 


HE  A T. 


HEAT. 

TTEAT  makes  the  hold  and  closing  grip 
That  atom  has  on  atom  slip. 

Further  apart  they  stand  and  glide 
Freely  at  last  from  side  to  side. 

Increase  the  heat  from  much  to  more, 

% 

The  breach  is  wider  than  before ; 

The  solid  doth  to  liquid  pass, 

The  liquid  rushes  into  gas. 

With  such  a fury,  such  a haste, 

The  atoms  part,  that  barrier  placed 
To  stop  their  course  is  torn  and  shattered  ; 
The  bomb  is  burst,  the  fortress  battered, 
The  earth  upheaved,  the  mountain  rent, 
That  prisoned  atoms  may  have  vent, 

And  cleave,  through  shaken  vale  or  hill, 

A path  for  their  resistless  will. 

The  cannon’s  thunder,  and  the  roar 
When  floods  of  fiery  lava  pour 


HE  A T. 


Forth  from  the  fierce  volcano’s  top, 

The  speed  of  ball  that  naught  may  stop 
Save  with  a crash  and  ruinous  touch,  — 
These  are  the  signs  that  show  how  much 
Of  sudden  and  impetuous  might 
Is  linked  with  atoms  shut  from  sight, 

And  waits  the  signal  made  by  heat 
To  unmask  the  giant,  and  complete, 

By  instant  strength  and  rending  force, 
Such  work  as  all  the  slower  course 
Of  other  powers  would  fail  to  do, 

Though  busy  years  and  centuries  through. 


160 


THE  CLOWN’S  SONG . 


THE  CLOWN’S  SONG. 

A RING  for  my  lady’s  hand ; 

For  my  master’s  head  a crown  ; 
For  the  learned  judge  a big  wig ; and 
A fool’s-cap  for  the  clown. 

There  are  tears  in  my  lady’s  eyes, 

And  my  master  wears  a frown, 

And  the  learned  judge  looks  owlish- wise ; 
But  I laugh,  a simple  clown. 

I shake  my  cap,  and  the  bell 
Clinks  in  a dainty  sort; 

I shake  my  merry  five  wits,  and  tell 
My  waggeries  to  the  court. 

There  are  tears  from  my  lady’s  eyes, 

But  of  laughing  they  run  down; 

And  the  learned  judge  looks  roguish- wise ; 
And  my  master  quits  his  frown. 


THE  CLOWN’S  SONG . 161 

Then  a fig  for  pomp  and  rules  ; 

The  cap  against  the  crown ; 

And  against  three  solemn,  stately  fools, 

One  merry-hearted  clown. 

14*  L 


162 


/ WALK  THE  GARDEN 


I WALK  THE  GARDEN  WHEN  THE 
NIGHT. 

T WALK  the  garden  when  the  night 
Is  cloudless,  sweet,  and  calm  ; 

Beneath  the  many-t wink  ling  light 
I breathe  the  heavenly  balm. 

The  bird,  in  yonder  darkling  grove, 

Makes  music  soft  and  clear, 

And  while  he  pours  the  notes  of  love, 
Night  holds  her  breath  to  hear. 

Among  the  whispering  leaves  I go ; 

I watch  the  flowers  that  sleep ; 

I feel  the  cooling  night-winds  blow 
Across  the  azure  deep. 

Above,  it  is  the  heaven  of  June; 

And  close  beside  my  feet 
The  brooklet  dreams  a summer-tune 
Low-voiced'  and  summer-sweet. 


WHEN  THE  NIGHT . 


163 


I gaze  upon  the  lights  that  wink 
In  the  dewy  East ; I see 
The  splendors  of  mid-heaven ; I sink 
With  those  that  set  to  me. 

I touch  the  skies  in  the  silent  hours 
When  Night  the  Soul  unbars ; 
Love  nestles  in  the  sleeping  flowers, 
Hope  soars  beyond  the  stars. 


164 


TO  U GIL 


TOUCH. 


0,  child,  throw  book  and  satchel  by, 


Nor  think  of  lettered  task  and  school ; 
Caught  by  the  radiance  of  his  wings, 

Go  chase  the  airy  butterfly 
That  flashes  near  the  summer  pool, 

Or  pales  the  lustre  of  the  flower 
Whereat  he  drinks  the  draught  that  brings 
Lethe  of  thee. 


In  which  that  brightness  cleaves  the  air 
Before  the  vision,  and  the  feet 
Quit  beaten  track,  to  follow  where 
The  meads  are  pathless ; doubly  sweet 
The  swift  pursuit  and  glittering  flight 
That  shape  the  way,  nor  care  to  know 
How  far  or  whither  they  may  go ; 

And  sweeter  still  the  dear  delight 
Of  pause  expectant,  ere  the  hand 


Sweet  is  the  hour 


TOUCH. 


165 


Reaches  to  where  the  winged  life 
Poises  on  flower;  and  most  rife 
With  joy  accomplished,  far  most  sweet, 
The  moment  when  the  touch  is  fanned 
By  the  light  wings,  and  fingers  meet 
In  clasp  ecstatic  to  embrace 
The  heedless  captive  of  the  chase. 

Alas!  what  pity  it  should  be 
A touch  that  soils  the  lustrous  wings, 
And  crushes,  past  all  remedy 
That  tenderest  ministration  brings, 

The  power  of  future  flight,  and  makes 
The  fragile  life  a type  of  much 
That  flits  before  the  sight,  and  shakes 
Its  golden  pinions  many  an  hour, 

Or  folds  them  by  the  wayside  flower, 
And  lures  us  to  the  unwise  touch. 

Yet  were  it  not  an  idle  chase, 

Nor  would  the  captured  butterfly 
Part  with  his  glory,  and  so  die 
Wholly  in  vain,  if  we  might  trace 
Thereby  a lesson,  and  discern 
A truth  that  elsewhere  we  may  learn 
With  sharper  pains  and  greater  cost 


166 


TO  UCH. 


Than  radiant  form  of  insect  lost : 

How  there  is  Beauty  that  will  bear 
No  nearer  touch  than  eye  or  ear, 

And  rather  than  be  closely  clasped, 

Far  rather  than  be  rudely  grasped, 

’T  will  pass  away  from  Earth,  and  be 
What  thenceforth  none  may  hear  or  see. 


TO  THE  SNOW-BIIU). 


TO  THE  SNOW-BIRD. 

TTTHEN  the  Summer  flowers  are  dead, 
And  the  birds  of  Song  have  fled, 
When  the  leaves  have  quit  the  bough, 
Whence,  O Snow-bird,  comest  thou? 

From  thy  Northern  nest  afar, 

Underneath  the  Polar  Star, 

From  the  Arctic  wintry  night, 

Southward  thou  hast  taken  flight. 

When  the  Season  howls  and  blows, 
Shelterless  amidst  the  snows, 

Dost  thou  nothing  fear  the  Storm? 

Is  it  Love  that  keeps  thee  warm?  > 

Why  not  wing  a further  flight 
Toward  a Tropic  warmth  and  light, 
Where  the  orange-groves  appear, 

And  ’t  is  Summer  all  the  year  ? 


168 


TO  THE  SNOW-BIRD. 


Love  within  thy  little  breast 
Could  not  further  quit  the  nest, 
Whither  thou  wilt  soon  have  flown 
As  the  piercing  days  are  gone. 

When  the  Water-fall  shall  leap 
Down  the  distant  icy  steep, 

Thither  with  the  dawn  of  Spring 
Thou  shalt  flit  on  rapid  wing 

As  an  exile  thou  art  come 
From  thy  Northern  nest  and  home, 
Till  the  season  shall  permit 
Thee  again  to  fly  to  it. 

Thou  wouldst  rather  tarry  where 
Wind  and  snow  and  biting  air 
May  a sharp  reminder  be 
Of  the  clime  that  nourished  thee. 

Welcome,  brave  though  little  heart, 
Welcome,  exile  as  thou  art. 

By  what  skill  hath  Nature  pressed 
So  much  courage  in  thy  breast? 


TO  THE  SNOW-BIRD. 


169 


When  the  tempests  loudest  roar, 
Welcome  round  the  house  and  door, 
Feed  thyself  on  scattered  crumbs : — 
Then,  as  soon  as  Spring-time  comes, 

Seek  once  more  the  glacial  vale 
While  the  Summer  suns  prevail, 

To  revisit  me  again 

When  it  snows,  and  only  then. 

Present,  thou  shalt  still  be  viewed 
As  compacted  hardihood ; 

Absent,  thou  shalt  be  to  me 
As  a pleasant  memory. 


15  • 


170 


CEASE , FOOLISH  HEART. 


CEASE,  FOOLISH  HEART. 


EASE,  foolish  heart,  to  question  and  to  doubt. 


Let  love  and  trust  the  round  solution  give. 
Life  is  a marvel  past  thy  finding  out, 

Yet  not  the  less  for  mystery  dost  thou  live. 

Of  cloud  and  darkness  is  fresh  beauty  born. 
Without  the  twilight  what  were  eve  or  morn? 

Forth  from  th’  Unknown,  wonder  and  worship  rise. 
Awe,  reverence,  aspiration,  hope,  surprise 
Strike  root  and  have  their  growth,  the  largest  where 
Most  miracle  aboundeth.  It  is  there, 

In  regions  free  from  limit,  that  the  soul 
Puts  forth  new  powers,  nor  suffers  the  control 
Wherewith  the  reason  hedges  her  around. 

Strict  definition  sets  a final  bound 
To  fancy’s  flights,  and  clips  the  airy  wings 
Of  swift  desires  and  high  imaginings. 

But  out  of  mystery  come,  as  from  a source, 

Wide  range  for  hope,  and  forward-reaching  force 


CEASE,  FOOLISH  HEART. 


171 


That  passes  toward  the  future,  whose  delight 
Shall  be  disclosure.  But  a clearer  sight 
Shall  find  new  depths  still  underlying  each 
Discovery  made.  Forever  out  of  reach, 

Beyond  our  compass  and  full  fathoming, 

Alike  is  world  or  atom.  Every  thing 
Is  cradled  in  th’  Unknown  and  girt  about 
By  veils  and  darkness.  All  that  lies  without, 

Sun,  clouds,  and  stars,  what  shall  be  or  hath  been, 
But  wakes  fresh  wonder  in  the  world  within. 


172 


PRETTY  VIOLETS. 


PRETTY  VIOLETS. 

T)RETTY  violets ! sleeping,  peeping ; 

Soft  blue  eyes  in  leafy  places ; 

Spring-time  showeth,  Spring-time  knoweth 
Nothing  sweeter  than  your  faces. 

Dainty  rosebuds  ! growing,  blowing, 
Opening  into  full  completeness; 

Summer  cometh,  and  she  summeth 
All  her  beauty  in  your  sweetness. 

Dying  leaflets ! twinkling,  sprinkling 
Wood  and  field  with  rainbow  - glory ; 

Ye  are  flashes  through  the  ashes 
Scattered  by  the  Autumn  hoary. 

Naked  branches ! housing,  closing 
Little  buds  from  sleet  and  coldness ; 

Winter  tarries,  but  he  carries 

Your  sweet  promise  in  his  oldness. 


PRETTY  VIOLETS. 


173 


Signs  and  symbols ! teaching,  preaching 
Many  a Love,  Hope,  Aspiration, 

All  the  reasons  of  the  seasons 

Rounding  into  Expectation. 

15* 


t 


174 


THE  POET . 


THE  POET. 

mHE  stars  move  silent  in  their  heavenly  courses, 
The  earth  in  silence  on  its  axle  turns,  # 

In  silence  grow  the  leafy  forest-forces, 

And  flowers  inlay  with  light  their  little  urns. 

Why  then  should  Poet  set  his  thought  to  numbers, 
And  stir  the  centuries  with  ceaseless  song? 

Why  should  he  break  the  quiet  of  these  slumbers 
With  sounds  that  in  the  distance  echo  long? 

Ah ! is  it  not  the  silent  stars  that  waken 
The  nightingale,  while  they  serenely  shine, 

Until  the  listening  air  is  thrilled  and  shaken 
As  with  a gush  of  melody  divine  ? 

Ah  ! is  it  not  the  forest  whose  resistance 

Calls  forth  sweet  plainings  from  the  wooing  breeze  ? 

Is  it  not  flowers  that  fill  each  little  distance 

With  murmurous  sound  of  ever-haunting  bees? 


THE  POET. 


175 


The  Poet  thus  for  Song  finds  warrant  ample, 

And  the  heart’s  fulness  out  of  silence  grows 

The  bird,  the  bee,  the  breeze  are  his  example, 

He  too  must  sing  of  star  and  leaf  and  rose. 

And  hearkening  elsewhere  hears  he  other  voices, 
Far-sounding  tones  and  tremulous  murmurings, 

At  which  his  soul  uprises  and  rejoices 
As  with  a sudden  gift  of  tireless  wings. 

He  hears  the  brook  go  whispering  through  the  sedges, 
Or  babbling  o’er  the  pebbles  by  the  way ; 

He  hears  the  cataract  shout  down  rocky  ledges, 
Mingling  its  music  with  the  heavenward  spray. 

He  sees  old  Ocean  now  in  silence  sleeping, 

And  now  in  wave  to  swelling  tide  and  storm, 

While  ripples  round  the  isles  are  softly  creeping, 

Or  thunder  dashes  where  the  breakers  form. 

Then  glancing  up  and  homewrard  to  the  Human, 

He  glows  with  ecstasy  that  must  be  told ; 

Straightway  he  sings  of  Love,  of  Love  and  Woman, 
A song  that  never,  never  shall  grow  old. 


176 


THE  POET. 


He  sets  to  verse  the  ever-changeful  story 
Of  joy  and  sorrow,  hope,  regret,  despair ; 

He  sings,  and  Life  and  Death,  and  Shame  and  Glory, 
All  find  a clear  and  rounded  utterance  there. 

Perceiving  well  the  secret,  sweet  relation 
That  underlies  all  silence  and  all  Song, 

How  this  is  voice,  and  that  is  inspiration, 

He  bears  the  flood  of  harmony  along. 

Through  him  the  stars  sing  in  their  heavenly  courses  ; 
The  Earth  wakes  Memnon’s  music  as  it  turns ; 

The  forests  knit  to  song  their  leafy  forces, 

And  flowers  new-murmur  in  their  honeyed  urns. 

With  matchless  art,  through  Space  and  Time  he  ranges, 
Language  his  color,  and  his  brush  the  pen : 

Look  how  the  page,  his  canvas,  shows  the  changes 
Of  sky,  cloud,  forest,  days,  years,  centuries,  men. 

He  paints  the  landscape : transient  gleam  and  shadow 
Give  play  of  movement  to  the  calm  repose ; 

Mountain  and  vale  and  wood  and  stream  and  meadow 
Are  dipt  in  light  till  all  the  picture  glows. 


THE  POET. 


177 


There  tendrils  clasp  and  climb ; there  bud  the  roses ; 

The  garden  blooms,  the  forest  breaks  to  green ; 

And  down  the  glen,  the  leaping  brook  discloses 
A mist  whereon  the  rainbow  rests  serene. 

As  when  the  earliest  sunbeam  falls  upon  them, 

There  shine  the  flowers  in  gold  and  white  and  blue  ; 
And  all  the  freshness,  morning  scatters  on  them, 

Still  trembles  in  the  glittering  drops  of  dew. 

There  move  the  Hours  in  ever-circling  dances : 

The  Dawn  bright-eyed  and  waking  flushed  with  light; 
Noon  veiled  in  cloudy  splendor  ; Evening’s  glances 
.From  the  warm  West;  and  then  the  starry  Night. 

There  move  the  Seasons : Spring-time  buds  and  blushes; 

The  Summer  scatters  roses  all  around ; 

The  vat  is  dyed  with  Autumn’s  purple  gushes  ; 

And  Winter’s  heel  clinks  on  the  frozen  ground. 

There  move  the  Years:  there  Childhood  smiles  and 
prattles ; 

Y outh  sighs  to  quit  the  play-ground  and  the  toy ; 
Broad  fields,  great  cities,  smoke  of  hearths  and  battles 
Show  Manhood’s  might  to  fashion  and  destroy. 

M 


178 


THE  POET. 


There  move  the  Centuries  in  grand  procession, 

To  clang  of  arms  or  soft  delight  of  art, 

To  Hero’s  wrath  or  Troubadour’s  confession, 

All  differing  acts  of  the  one  great  human  heart. 

There  stands  the  ruin  ivy-crowned,  and  hoary 
With  the  slow  touch  of  Time’s  relentless  power, 
Showing  fair  traces  of  a far-off  glory, 

And  a sad  beauty  as  its  only  dower. 

And  there  are  shattered  shafts  and  broken  arches 
Strewing  the  ground  with  trophies  of  Decay  ; 

There  frown  the  blackened  walls  where  Conquest 
marches 

And  brings  swift  desolation  in  a day. 

There  warriors  fight,  the  dust  and  blood  defiling 
Grim-visaged  forms  amid  the  carnage  wild : 

There  Hector  meets  Andromache,  and,  smiling, 

Puts  off  the  affrighting  crest  to  embrace  his  child. 

Life’s  throng  sweeps  by : each  age  and  each  condition ; 

The  thankless  daughters  and  the  maddened  Lear  • 
And  Romeo  breathes  the  impassioned  repetition 
Of  Love’s  sweet  story  into  Juliet’s  ear. 


THE  POET. 


179 


And  other  shapes  are  there,  swift,  dainty,  airy, 
Fantastic  as  the  clouds  that  storms  have  curled : 

Titania  holds  her  court,  a queen,  a fairy  ; 

And  Puck,  with  swiftness,  girdles  all  the  world. 

The  leaflet  rustles  in  the  Poet’s  pages ; 

Birds  sing,  bees  hum,  streams  lapse  with  sounding 
flow ; 

He  tells  Life’s  story  to  the  listening  Ages, 

And  how  the  changing  wonders  come  and  go. 

Type  of  the  beautiful  and  evanescent, 

fie  never  tires  to  sing  the  floweret’s  praise : 

The  transient  bloom  with  him  is  ever  present, 

And  fragrance  fills  the  passing  hours  and  days. 

/ 

He  feels  the  stir  of  life  when  April  looses 
The  tongue  of  rivulet,  and  when  the  roots 

Of  plant  and  tree  throb  with  the  secret  juices 

That  soon  shall  shape  the  flowers  and  swell  the  fruits. 

He  feels  the  pulses  of  the  sunshine  beating 
In  leaf  and  branch ; he  sees  the  glory  break 

Beneath  his  feet,  how  fresh,  how  fair,  how  fleeting, 
When  sward  and  hill-side  into  bloom  awake. 


180 


THE  POET. 


He  feels  the  beauty  of  the  Year  in  dying, 

When  gold  and  crimson  deck  the  funeral  pyre, 

And  Autumn  shows  a leafy  radiance  lying 
Along  the  landscape,  like  a cloud  of  fire. 

He  feels  the  hope  that  death  may  close  within  it, 
While  Winter  nurses,  underneath  the  snow, 

The  seeds  and  bulbs  that  wait  the  happy  minute 
When  frosts  are  done  and  storms  have  ceased  to  blow. 

Finding  in  books  their  daintiest  thoughts  and  fancies, 
He  knows  the  scholar’s  patient  art  and  care ; 

Then  hastes  to  the  leaves  of  violets,  daisies,  pansies, 

To  read  the  sweeter  lessons  written  there. 

He  sees  more  glory  through  the  cloud  scarce  riven 
To  show  his  eye  a glimmering  star  or  two, 

Than  searching  glass  can  find  in  all  the  heaven 
Where  nebulous  dawn  lights  up  the  darkling  blue. 

He  sees  more  beauty,  beauty  that  increases, 

In  every  flower,  with  every  glancing  look, 

Than  all  the  crowd  who  count  and  take  to  pieces 
And  parse  and  crush  their  pleasure  in  a book. 


THE  POET. 


181 


He  finds  Hope  hidden  where  the  buds  are  blowing  ; 

And  Love  in  the  roses,  pricked  with  Cupid’s  thorn ; 
And  Labor  patient  while  her  fruits  are  growing ; 

And  Plenty  crowned  among  the  ripened  corn. 

The  simplest  thing  is  greatest  intimation ; 

To-day  re-echoes  fuller  sounds  of  yore ; 

The  tear-drop  hints  the  law  of  gravitation ; 

The  sea-shell  murmurs  of  the  ocean’s  roar. 

He  moves  apart,  where  selfish  ways  are  crowded, 

Nor  feels  it  solitude  to  be  alone ; 

Haunting  the  glen  in  leafy  verdure  shrouded, 

He  finds  companionship  in  tree  and  stone. 

He  feels  the  flaws  of  changing  wind  and  weather, 

Sees  Strength  live  on,  and  Beauty  smile  and  die, 

The  oak  whose  toughness  knits  the  years  together* 

And  rose-leaves  scattered  ere  the  day  goes  by. 

He  soars  beyond  where  heavenly  blue  hath  rounded 
This  little  earth  with  starry  canopy ; 

He  sinks  to  depths  that  lead  hath  never  sounded, 

And  treads  the  silent  flooring  of  the  sea. 

16 


182 


THE  POET. 


He  bows  where  Art  uplifts  the  temple’s  column, 

In  awful  reverence  of  the  All-Wise  and  Good ; 

His  worship  is  as  holy  and  as  solemn 

In  the  shadowy  aisles  and  arches  of  the  wood. 

He  knows  the  splendor  of  the  regal  palace, 

The  frescoed  wall,  the  tessellated  floor ; 

He  drinks  a rapture  from  the  floweret’s  chalice 
That  pours  its  beauty  round  the  cottage-door. 

No  place  is  shut  against  his  swift  intrusions, 

No  time  too  sacred  for  his  presence  there ; 

The  Stage  is  peopled  by  his  grand  illusions, 

His  incense  fills  the  House  of  Praise  and  Prayer. 

He  lifts  the  crown  from  brows  adorned,  but  laden, 
And  shows  to  kings  the  empty  pomp  that  kneels ; 

He  gives  expression  to  the  village  maiden 
Of  all  the  secret  mystery  she  feels. 

He  sees  the  Man  beneath  the  husk  and  cover, 

The  robe,  the  frock,  the  hood,  the  cowl,  the  gown 

He  finds  the  dreams  and  pulses  of  the  lover 
Beneath  the  cap  and  motley  of  the  clown. 


THE  POET. 


183 


Drawing  aside  the  masks  and  the  disguises 

That  Rank,  Wealth,  Fashion,  Beauty,  choose  to  wear, 

The  state  that  awes,  the  grandeur  that  surprises, 

He  lays  .the  hidden  springs  of  action  bare. 

He  drops  the  line  deep  in  the  heart’s  recesses, 

Where  Science  hath  no  plummet  that  may  reach ; 

He  gathers  truth  from  wondrous  hints  and  guesses, 
Where  Logic. fails  to  apply  her  forms  of  speech. 

He  knows  the  wise  man’s  wit,  and  the  fool’s  folly, 

The  unrest  of  idling,  the  repose  of  toil ; 

He  hath,  beside,  his  own  sweet  melancholy, 

Wherein  to  set  his  blisses  as  a foil. 

He  sings  of  Friendship,  Troth  in  secret  plighted, 

The  words  that  Love  doth  whisper  but  to  one ; 

Ambition,  Fame,  Faith  broken,  and  Hope  blighted, 
And  Sorrow  making  helpless  wail  and  moan ; 

Of  War  that  blows  a blast  of  desolation 
O’er  palace,  hamlet,  citadel,  and  field ; 

Of  Peace  that  builds  the  town,  and  fills  the  nation 
With  fruits  the  laurel  knows  not  how  to  yield, 


184 


THE  POET. 


Witli  wh eaten  sheaf,  instead  of  poisonous  berry, 

With  grape  and  olive,  song  and  joyous  ease, 

And  oil  and  wine,  and  hearty  cheer  and  merry, 

And  sun-browned  Toil  to  earn  and  welcome  these. 

He  fills  the  by-gone  Years  with  life  and  power; 

The  Past  no  more  is  a forgotten  dream : 

The  mould  revives  in  leaf  and  bud  and  flower, 

And  through  the  dusk  strange  forms  of  beauty  gleam. 

In  Court  and  Camp,  at  thronging  Tilt  and  Tourney, 
And  round  the  May-pole  on  the  village-green, 

And,  staff  in  hand,  upon  the  distant  journey, 

Pilgrims  and  peasants,  kings  and  knights  are  seen. 

Time,  Change,  Oblivion  fail,  through  him,  to  banish 
Remembrance  of  the  Early  and  the  Dead : 

The  world’s  fair  dawn  shall  never  wholly  vanish, 

Nor  thought  of  days  that  long  ago  have  fLd. 

Swift  from  the  sheath  the  sword  leaps  forth  and  flashes  ; 

The  coat  of  mail  shakes  off  its  film  of  rust ; 

The  ancient  fire  glows  underneath  the  ashes, 

And  hearts  still  throb  that  now  are  naught  but  dust. 


THE  POET. 


185 


The  olden  world  comes  back  with  sound  of  thunder, 
And  noise  of  many  voices,  and  the  shout 

And  tumult  of  the  passions,  Joy  and  Wonder, 

And  rain  of  tears,  and  laughter  ringing  out. 

The  Past  grows  dear  and  consecrate  and  holy ; 

There  lies  our  Youth  and  the  World’s  Youth;  and 
there 

Repose  the  Dead : and  swift  to  it,  or  slowly 
Shall  all  be  gathered  that  is  young  and  fair. 

And  dear  the  Present  is,  with  seed  and  blossom, 

Sweet  thoughts  that  bud  and  wait  their  coming  prime; 

And  dearer  still  the  Future,  in  whose  bosom 
Is  held  the  sum  and  end  of  Life  and  Time. 

Thus  Life  is  bound  to  Death,  and  Joy  to  Sorrow, 

All  days  together,  and  the  Young  and  Old ; 

The  buds  that  clasp  their  beauty  for  To-morrow, 

And  relics  that  the  ribs  of  rock  enfold. 

Above  the  grave  where  Youth  and  Joy  have  perished, 
He  plants  the  flower  and  waters  it  with  tears ; 

And  what  the  Past  hath  fondly  nursed  and  cherished, 
He  embalms  in  verse  for  all  the  coming  Years. 


16* 


186 


THE  POET . 


Touching  the  extremes  of  being,  he  embraces 
By  subtle  sympathy  each  various  part  ; 

Through  all  the  Protean  change  of  times  and  places 
He  speaks  the  common  language  of  the  Heart. 

This  is  his  Warrant,  his  divine  Commission : — 

To  know,  to  feel,  to  climb,  to  fathom  well 
Pleasure  and  pain  and  rapture  and  perdition, 

Earth  and  the  highest  heaven  and  lowest  hell : 

To  shape  great  Aims,  great  thoughts  to  plant  and 
nourish ; 

To  sow  the  seed  of  action  in  desire ; 

To  make  old  memories  live  again  and  flourish ; 

To  fix  high  Ends  that  lead  still  on  to  higher : 

To  find  the  Past  in  present  consummation ; 

To  give  all  moments  common  drift  and  scope ; 

To  teach  the  restless  joy  of  Aspiration ; 

To  fill  the  Future  full  of  largest  Hope: 

To  walk  among  the  dew-drops  of  the  morning ; 

To  bear  the  morn’s  sweet  freshness  on  toward  noon  ; 
To  watch  the  May-bud  every  stalk  adorning ; 

To  show  the  bud  of  May  to  the  flower  of  June : 


THE  POET 


187 


To  invest  the  simplest  daily  act  with  beauty  ; 

To  give  our  common  life  a charm  and  grace ; 

To  inspire  with  Love  the  solemn  words  of  Duty ; 

To  change  the  hearth-stone  to  a sacred  place : 

To  teach  a reverence  for  the  small  and  lowly ; 

To  make  the  heaven  an  azure  temple-dome ; 

All  seasons  beautiful,  all  places  holy; 

To  consecrate  the  very  name  of  Home : 

Each  passing  form  of  loveliness  to  cherish ; 

To  catch  the  flying  shapes  as  they  appear; 

To  breathe  the  violet’s  sweetness  ere  it  perish, 

And  make  the  daisy  flourish  all  the  year: 

To  arrest  the  transient ; to  endow  the  dying 
With  an  eternal  youth,  beauty,  and  power ; 

To  fix  forever  forms  the  swiftest-flying, 

As  when  they  shone  in  their  selectest  hour : 

To  show  how  Love  doth  dream,  how  Madness  rages ; 

To  speak  all  human  thoughts  that  may  be  told ; 
To  sing  the  song  that  pains  and  then  assuages ; 

To  lead  men  forth  to  the  fabled  Age  of  Gold: 


188 


THE  POET. 


To  find  for  grief  soft  interlude  of  pleasure ; 

To  dull  the  cutting  scythe-edge  all  he  can ; 

To  trick  the  robber,  Time,  of  many  a treasure ; 

To  keep  alive  the  Child’s  heart  in  the  Man : 

To  show  the  Muses  circling  round  Apollo, 

Truth,  Beauty,  Love,  and  Joy  linked  hand  in  hand, 
Goodness  to  lead  the  group,  and  Use  to  follow 

With  Song  and  Dance  through  all  the  happy  Land. 

For  naught  was  meant  for  Silence,  all  for  Singing ; 

All  things  conspire  toward  a harmonious  whole ; 
Each  smallest  part,  its  snatch  of  music  bringing, 
Completes  itself  within  the  Poet’s  soul. 

This  is  the  magic  that  transcendeth  reason, 

This  is  the  acme  of  the  Poet’s  skill, 

To  scan  the  Eternal  Ages  in  the  Season 
Which  briefly  Time  allotteth  him  to  fill. 

He  comes  and  goes ; he  glances  at  the  splendor 
Of  shining  sun  and  cloud  suffused  with  light, 

The  morning’s  glow,  the  twilight  sweet  and  tender, 
And  darkness  throned  upon  her  starry  height : 


THE  POET. 


189 


Yet  in  this  eye-flash  at  the  passing  wonder, 

He  reads  the  miracle  of  Life,  and  e’en 

The  mystery  of  Death  that  lieth  under 

All  things  that  are,  or  shall  be,  or  have  been. 

Of  Birth,  Life,  Death,  and  what  beyond  may  follow, 
The  joy,  the  pain,  the  swift  exchange  of  each; 

Of  earth  and  stars,  and  spheres  beyond  the  hollow 
Of  the  blue  sky,  and  far  beyond  the  reach 

Of  piercing  glass ; of  the  profound  abysses 
That  yawn  beneath  our  feet ; of  Lethe’s  wave, 

And  fiery  Phiegethon  that  roars  and  hisses 
Beneath  the  coldness  of  the  silent  grave ; — 

Of  these  he  sings,  has  sung,  will  sing  forever, 

While  man  is  man,  and  Seasons  go  and  come ; 

Of  these  he  sings,  and  will  be  silent  never, 

Until  Death  strikes  the  final  Poet  dumb. 


190 


SHOW  ME  HE  A T H. 


SHOW  ME  DEATH. 

QHOW  me  Death ; but  paint  not  him 
^ As  a monster  gaunt  and  grim, 
Striking  horror  and  disgust 
Ere  he  gives  the  mortal  thrust. 

Show  him  as  an  Angel  fair, 

From  the  upper  fields  of  air, 

Full  of  tenderness  and  grace, 

With  how  sad,  how  sweet  a face. 

Call  him  Angel  of  Release, 

Bringing  silence,  sleep,  and  peace, 

Calm  to  many  a troubled  breast, 

To  the  worn  and  weary  rest: 

Bringing  slumber  unto  those 
Who  are  sighing  for  repose, 

Shelter  to  the  tempest-tost, 

Lull  of  anguish  to  the  lost. 


SHOW  ME  HE  A TH. 


191 


Who  shall  drowse  the  sense  of  pain, 
Cool  the  fever  of  the  brain; 

And,  through  all  the  frame,  impart 
Ease  beyond  the  reach  of  art? 

Who  the  throbbing  pulse  shall  still, 
Blunt  the  cutting  edge  of  ill, 
Medicine  each  bitter  grief, 

Bring  the  perfect,  long  relief? 

When  the  Sorrow  is  p&st  cure, 
Naught  being  left  but  to  endure, 
Death  comes  in,  the  final  friend, 
Death,  the  Angel  of  the  End. 


192 


A THOUGHT  FOR  CHRISTMAS. 


A THOUGHT  FOR  CHRISTMAS. 

OT  in  Spring-time’s  budding  freshness, 
Nor  in  Summer’s  opened  prime, 

Nor  amid  the  wealth  of  Autumn, 
Blossoming  or  fruitful  time ; 

But  when  Winter’s  icy  sceptre 
Reigned  all  desolate  and  drear, 

Was  the  world’s  Redeemer  brought  forth 
Of  the  almost  dying  Year. 

Therefore,  though  the  world’s  redemption 
Tarry  yet  a little  while; 

Still  let  Hope  and  full  Assurance 
Every  waiting  hour  beguile. 

Though  its  Spring-like  Youth  has  faded, 
And  its  Summer-time  hath  gone, 

And  the  Oldness  of  its  Autumn 
Draweth,  in  its  season,  on, 


A THOUGHT  FOR  CHRISTMAS. 

Yet  hope  thou,  hope  thou  forever, 
Winter’s  strength  is  not  yet  past 
Lo!  the  World’s  Salvation  cometh, 
As  its  Saviour  came,  at  last. 

17 


N 


194 


THE  HERBARIUM. 


THE  HERBARIUM. 

T)OOR  Flowers!  crushed  by  leaves  of  books, 
From  your  forlorn  and  faded  looks 
I learn  that  Science  is  not  able 
To  keep  the  freshness  and  the  bloom, 

The  fragile  grace  and  sweet  perfume 
Of  what  she  has  the  skill  to  label. 

Sad  types  ye  are  of  fairer  things, 

Of  Hearts  with  bloom,  of  Thoughts  with  wings, 
Faded  and  crushed,  these  many  ages, 

By  Bookish  Art.  Alas ! for  skill 
That  only  knows  to  pluck  and  kill, 

And  bury  in  its  mound  of  pages. 


FROM  THE  KING  TO  THE  CLOWN.  19 


FROM  THE  KING  TO  THE  CLOWN. 

T71ROM  the  king  to  the  clown 
Every  one  goeth  down, 

* 

Rich  and  poor,  great  and  small, 

They  go  down,  one  and  all, 

Unto  Death. 

And  I said,  “ Foolish  Heart, 

Wouldst  thou  dwell  where  thou  art, 
Joining  not  with  the  throng 
That  goes  throbbing  along 
Unto  Death  ? ” 

Then  my  heart  answered,  “No, 

With  my  Kind  let  me  go ; 

Let  me  beat  to  the  tune 
Leading  all,  late  or  soon, 

Down  to  Death.” 


196 


PROVIDENT . 


PROVIDENT. 

fTlHE  Bee,  among  the  summer  flowers, 
Grows  not  so  intoxicate  with  sweet 
As  to  forget  that  passing  hours 
Will  shed  the  bloom,  and  snow  and  sleet 
Will  cover  all  the  waste.  Full  well 
He  loads  his  thighs  with  dust  of  gold, 

And  kneads  the  wax,  and  builds  the  cell 
To  hive  the  honey  and  to  hold 
The  radiant  Season’s  rare  excess 
Against  the  days  of  cloud  and  cold. 

And  so  the  sweets  of  May-time  bless 
December’s  bleakness,  and  he  stays 
Warm  housed,  and  tastes  the  hoarded  spoil, 
Until  the  year  brings  back  the  days 
When  forth  from  out  the  loosened  soil 
The  stalks  arise,  and  buds  begin 
To  swell  upon  unnumbered  boughs, 

And  sweetness  stores  itself  within 
The  flower.  And  then  he  doth  arouse 


PROVIDENT. 


197 


For  timely  flight,  and  chase  once  more 
The  winged  hours,  that  soon  shall  lead 
The  glory  of  the  wood  and  mead 
To  dust  and  darkness  as  before. 

17* 


\ 


198 


ELIXIR  VITJE. 


ELIXIR  VIT-ZE. 

T IVING  too  long  where  brick  and  mortar  crushes, 
Hearing  the  tread  of  countless  busy  feet, 

Watching  the  Life  that  far  more  fiercely  rushes, 

Than  flame  or  whirlwind,  through  the  narrow  street 

What  wonder  if  the  heart  have  intimations 
Of  drouth  and  hardness  and  untimely  age ; 

If  dreams  of  Youth  depart,  and  aspirations 
Of  Manhood  seem  to  end  in  strife  and  rage  ? 

Against  this  power  of  Time  to  sere  and  harden, 

Go  try  the  charm  that  Nature’s  presence  yields ; 

Go  seek  the  balm  and  fragrance  of  the  garden 
And  all  the  soothing  influence  of  the  fields. 

Pause  where  the  gush  and  plash  of  summer  fountain 
With  slumbrous  sound  and  coolness  fills  the  air; 

Climb  far  above  the  mists  that  skirt  the  mountain 
And  breathe  a larger,  fresher  being  there. 


ELIXIR  VITjE. 


199 

Haunt  leafy  woods,  with  verdurous  lights  and  shadows  ; 

By  hank  of  gurgling  brook  repose  awhile ; 

Learn  all  the  varying  sweetness  of  the  meadows, 

The  nod  of  grass,  the  wild-flower’s  heavenly  smile. 

Then  walk  again  the  pavement  hard  and  dusty, 

With  step  that  freshened  on  the  blowing  heath  ; 
Among  the  books  and  parchments  old  and  musty, 
.Shall  come  remembrance  of  the  violet’s  breath. 

Through  all  the  roar  of  streets  and  din  of  alleys, 

The  strife  of  Trades  and  wranglings  of  the  Courts, 
Shall  steal  the  silent  sweetness  of  the  valleys, 

And  Love  shall  write  his  Volumes  of  Reports. 


200 


THE  CL  0 UD . 


THE  CLOUD. 

HIKE  cloud  that  curtains  all  the  sky 
Is  the  one  that  brings  the  rain ; 

And  a thousand  things  are  fed  thereby, 
Upon  the  darkened  plain. 

Look  how  the  grass  begins  to  grow, 

And  the  vine  to  climb  and  spread, 

And  the  bud  to  swell  itself,  and  show 
The  hidden  white  and  red. 

The  Sorrow  that  bedims  the  heaven, 

Like  the  fruitful  cloud  appears ; 

And  the  growth  of  tenderest  thoughts  is  given 
To  the  ministry  of  tears. 

For  look  how  Love  then  hath  its  flood, 

And  the  heart  doth  clasp  and  climb; 

And  the  Soul,  that  hid  its  life  in  bud, 
Blooms  out  in  the  sad,  sweet  time. 


COMPENSA  TIOK 


201 


COMPENSATION. 

T ET  the  Earth  spin  round  and  bring 

Day  and  night,  sunshine  and  shadow, 

All  the  pretty  buds  of  Spring, 

Summer’s  bloom  to  wood  and  meadow; 

Let  its  motion  touch  the  trees 
With  a brief  Autumnal  glory; 

Let  the  Winter  hide  all  these 
Underneath  his  mantle  hoary ; 

Let  it  thread  the  gold  with  gray, 

Steal  a blush  from  out  Life’s  roses : — 

For  each  charm  it  takes  away, 

Some  new  beauty  it  discloses. 

Does  the  Sun  sink  down  the  skies, 

Darkness  shutting  twilight  tender? 

Look,  a thousand  stars  arise, 

And  the  Night  is  filled  with  splendor. 


202 


COM  PEN'S  A TION. 


Does  the  Winter  come  and  blow 
All  the  brown  leaves  into  hollows? 
Spring  shall  make  the  fairer  show 
For  the  bleakness  that  she  follows. 

Does  the  golden  turn  to  gray? 

Wisdom  comes  as  time  flies  fleeter. 
Do  the  roses  fade  away? 

Dying  roses  breathe  the  sweeter. 

Then  let  Earth  spin  round  and  bring 
All  its  wondrous,  swift  mutations : 
Birth,  Life,  Death,  lo!  every  thing 
Hath  its  subtle  compensations. 


THEN  Bin  ME  SING  NO  MORE . 


203 


THEN  BID  ME  SING  NO  MORE. 
HENEVER  Spring  doth  come, 


And  in  the  blossom  there  is  not  the  hum 
Of  wandering  bees,  and  on  the  bough  is  heard 
No  voice  of  warbling  bird ; 

Then  bid  my  Song  be  dumb. 

When  Summer  dawns  and  goes, 

Nor  brings  the  peerless  beauty  of  the  rose, 

Nor  finds  the  nightingale  beside  his  nest, 

For  silence  all  too  blest; 

Then  bid  my  Music  close. 

When  Autumn  doffs  his  suit, 

And  shows  upon  the  branch  no  ripened  fruit, 

■ 

And  Plenty  shouts  no  happy  harvest-hymn 
With  Horn  filled  to  the  brim ; 

Then  bid  my  Voice  be  mute. 


204 


THEN  BIB  ME  SING  NO  MORE. 


And  when  the  Winter  hoar 
Shall  muffle  all,  and  with  his  sullen  roar 
Shall  lull  asleep  no  seed  nor  living  thing 
That  waits  the  joyous  Spring ; 

Then  bid  me  sing  no  more. 


BEFORE  THE  AUTUMN  DAYS  ARE  GONE.  205 


BEFORE  THE  AUTUMN  DAYS  ARE 

GONE. 

T)EFORE  the  Autumn  days  are  gone 
Or  shake  their  leafy  glories  down, 

A purple  robe  the  oak  puts  on, 

The  hickory  wears  a golden  crown. 

His  oriflamme  the  maple  lifts, 

A cloud  of  opal  veils  the  ash, 

And  through  the  glens  and  forest  rifts 
The  sumach  shines  in  scarlet  sash. 

The  dogwood  dons  his  crimson  suit, 

The  russet  acorn  fills  his  cup, 

The  wild-grape  shows  his  purple  fruit 
Upon  the  vine  that  clambers  up. 

In  glancing  hues,  by  wood  and  glade, 

Their  Summer  dress  the  trees  disguise 
For  carnival  and  masquerade, 

Before  the  happy  season  flies. 

18 


206  BEFORE  THE  AUTUMN  DAYS  ARE  GONE . 


And  fair  the  steadfast  colors  shine 
Amid  the  brilliance  of  decay, 

Where  holly,  cedar,  fir,  and  pine 
Their  tints  of  evergreen  display. 

And  fresher,  by  the  garden -walks, 

The  scarf  of  changeless  verdure  shows 

Upon  the  hardy  hedge  of  box 

That  thus  defies  the  coming  snows. 

The  ivy  lights  its  funeral  pyre 
Before  the  climbing  foliage  drops, 

And,  like  a sheet  of  ruddy  fire, 

Creeps  o’er  the  walls  and  chimney-tops. 

From  orchard-rows  the  apples  gleam 
In  many  a mellow  streak  and  stain; 

The  willows  hang  above  the  stream 
Like  clouds  of  mist  before  the  rain. 

The  chestnut  parts  his  prickly  burrs 
To  show  a shell  of  richest  dye. 

O’er  stubbled  fields  the  partridge  whirs, 
And  calls  his  mate  with  plaintive  cry. 


BEFORE  THE  AUTUMN  DAYS  ARE  GONE.  207 

From  limb  to  limb  the  squirrels  run, 

A restless  flash  of  red  or  gray, 

In  haste,  before  the  year  is  done, 

To  store  the  ripened  nuts  away. 

Long  lines  of  film  float  high  in  air 
And  wave  and  shine  with  lustrous  gloss, 

And  gossamer -nets  are  woven  where 
The  spider  throws  his  threads  across. 

Unnumbered  insects  flit  and  dance 
By  stream  and  woodland,  vale  and  hill, 

And,  in  the  lingering  sunshine,  glance 

Through  brilliant  waltz  and  brief  quadrille : 

A countless  throng  of  happy  things 
That  measure  off  the  transient  hours 
With  mazy  flight  and  hum  of  wings, 

Nor  heed  the  fall  of  leaves  and  flowers. 

In  noisy  conclave  on  the  bough, 

In  parliament  by  eaves  and  fence, 

The  birds  collect,  and  argue  how 

And  when  to  take  their  journey  hence. 


208  BEFORE  THE  AUTUMN  DAYS  ARE  GONE . 

“Why  stay  when  Summer  days  have  flown? 

Why  linger  round  the  empty  nest? 

We  ’ll  chase  the  Months  from  zone  to  zone, 

And  find  each  Season  still  the  best. 

“’T  would  be  of  wings  a wilful  waste 
To  follow  not  the  slanting  sun 
By  southward  flight  and  timely  haste, 

Before  the  pleasant  days  are  done.” 

Then  clouds  of  blackness  blot  the  blue, 

Where  feathered  flocks  are  on  the  wing 
For  absence,  till  the  Year  renew 
Itself  among  the  sweets  of  Spring. 

Like  globes  of  gold  the  pumpkins  glow 
Within  the  fields  of  faded  maize, 

Whose  ears  of  yellow  ripeness  show 

The  wealth  that  lurked  in  Summer’s  rays. 

Where  ploughs  have  browned  the  vale  and  slope, 
The  cheerful  spires  of  wheat  are  seen, 

That  fill  the  waning  days  with  Hope 
And  keep  the  heart  of  Winter  green. 


BEFORE  THE  AUTUMN  DAYS  ARE  GONE.  209 


And  where  on  grassy  lawns  and  hills 
The  early  freshness  is  not  lost, 

The  pearls  of  dew,  that  Night  distils, 

Are  changed  to  diamonds  by  the  Frost. 

A film  of  ice  o’ercrusts  the  pool 

When  Morning  greets  the  laggard  Sun; 

And  brisk  and  ruddy-cheeked  to  school, 
With  smoking  breath  the  children  run. 

A round  and  fiery  disk  of  red 

Drops  slowly  down  the  tranquil  west, 

And  slumbrous  light  on  all  is  shed 
Before  Repose  is  drowsed  to  Rest. 

And  while  the  South-west  gently  blows 
Autumnal  smoke  from  Summer’s  blaze,  . 

The  Landscape  softly  dreams,  and  shows 
Its  glory  through  a golden  haze. 

The  Earth  is  as  a censer  swung, 

And  fills  the  Heaven  with  odorous  breath, 

Before  the  Year  moves  on  among 
His  fellows,  and  lies  down  to  death. 

18*  0 


210  BEFORE  THE  AUTUMN  DAYS  ARE  GONE . 

In  place  of  tasselled  boughs  and  buds, 

A thousand  shifting  tints  and  dyes 

Play  in  the  Sun,  and  o’er  the  woods 
An  iridescent  splendor  lies; 

How  soon  to  fade  and  fall  away 

When  frosts  are  sharp  and  winds  have  blown, 

And  all  this  pomp  and  rich  array 
Is  whirling  leaves  of  sombre  brown. 

But  not  beyond  repair : for  soon 

As  Winter’s  storm  and  sleep  have  past, 

The  bloom  of  every  May  and  June 
Shall  still  be  fairer  than  the  last; 

Fairer  and  sweeter  every  flower 

That  springs  from  richer,  deeper  mould ; 

From  dust  and  death,  Life  decks  her  bower, 
And  Earth  grows  Young  in  growing  Old. 


TO  THE  HUMMING-BIRD. 


211 


TO  THE  HUMMING-BIRD. 

T)  RIGHT,  many-tinted  bird, 

A wondrous  life  thou  art: 

To  think  such  sounding  motion  should  be  heard 
Where  beats  so  small  a heart! 

Through  the  long  summer  hours 
Thou  flittest  everywhere, 

With  wings  deep-colored  as  the  summer  flowers, 
And  feet  that  rest  on  air. 

Not  where  the  shadow  lies 
About  thy  hidden  nest, 

Didst  thou,  of  leafy  dimness,  catch  the  dyes 
With  which  thy  life  is  drest. 

Thou,  into  heaven’s  cloud  dipping, 

Hast  caught  the  rainbow’s  hue ; 

Or,  of  the  flowers,  hast  drunk  the  tints,  while  sipping 
The  honey  and  the  dew. 


212 


TO  THE  HUMMING-BIRD . 


So  soon  as  from  my  sight 
Thy  swift  wings  disappear, 

What  charmed  the  eye  with  play  of  broken  light, 
With  motion  charms  the  ear. 

Poised  for  a moment  there 
Before  the  floweret’s  cup, 

On  viewless  wings  reposing  in  the  air, 

Thou  drink’st  the  nectar  up. 

Hath  God  denied  thee  voice, 

So  richly  dowered  beside? 

Or  fearest  thou  to  tell  thy  little  joys 
In  world  that  is  so  wide? 

Yet  no  one  goes  unheard, 

Whose  action  speaks  or  sings; 

And  thus  thou  fliest,  bright  and  beauteous  bird, 
With  music  in  thy  wings. 


THE  POPPY. 


213 


THE  POPPY. 

TAROWSY  Poppy,  glowing  and  red, 

Sleeping  and  dreaming  in  the  sun, 

When  the  winds  pass  thou  noddest  thy  head, 
Dreaming  and  sleeping  on. 

Is  it  of  drinking  heavenly  dew, 

Or  is  it  of  feasting  on  earth  and  fire, 

Thou  hast  gotten  that  bacchanal  hue, 

And  art  filled  with  dreams  and  desire? 

Earth  and  fire,  not  heavenly  dews 
Have  fed  thee  and  filled  each  vein 
With  the  thick  and  sluggish  and  maddening  juice 
That  poisons,  yet  lulls  the  pain. 

O unwise  and  perishing  flower, 

Sleeping  and  dreaming,  nodding  and  gay, 

And  dying,  alas!  in  the  self-same  hour, 

Emblem  of  others  who  pass  away! 


214  WHO  DID  WIN  THE  POET’S  PRAISE t 


WHO  DID  WIN  THE  POET’S  PRAISE? 

"\T7HO  did  win  the  Poet’s  praise 
* * In  the  far-off,  early  days  ? 

’T  was  the  Hero : he  who  could 
Head  the  affray  and  shed  the  blood 
Of  his  fellow  without  stint. 

Brow  of  brass  and  heart  of  flint, 

Hand  to  grasp  the  shining  blade, 

Arm  to  wield  it  undismayed 
Where  the  fight  was  thickest,  he 
Was  the  man  of  high  degree, 

Warrior,  hero,  ruler,  king; 

And  the  poet  scarce  could  sing 
All  the  glory,  all  the  fame 
Of  the  mighty  monster’s  name. 

Who  will  win  the  poet’s  praise 
In  the  coming  years  and  days? 

It  will  be  the  one  who  can 
Kindliest  aid  his  fellow  man, 


WHO  DID  WIN  THE  POETfS  PRAISE?  215 


Guide  and  comfort  and  protect ; 

He  shall  be  the  Chief  elect. 

Love  shall  rule  the  world  that  late 
Felt  the  sway  of  scorn  and  hate. 
Caste  has  vanished,  slavery  falls, 
Rank  no  longer  proudly  calls 
Right  divine  the  strength  of  kings. 
Man  is  man,  the  poet  sings; 

He  is  greatest,  wisest,  best, 

Who  most  loves  and  serves  the  rest. 


216 


SEEDS . 


SEEDS. 

T)EHOLD  the  Greatest  closed  within  the  Least, 
The  Past  summed  up  and  sweetly  miniatured, 
Store  whence  the  living  Present  is  increased, 

And  where  the  hopeful  Future  hath  insured 
Its  pledge  of  promise.  Every  several  seed 
Hath  its  appointed  way,  and  cunning  force 
To  blend  and  shape  the  elements,  and  lead 
Them  on  and  upward  by  a wondrous  course 
Of  life  and  growth.  In  hardened  shell  and  rind 
And  housing  husk,  what  things  of  bulk  and  weight, 
What  prodigies  of  strength  and  lordly  state, 

And  shining  forms  of  beauty  do  we  find, 

All  germinally  present.  Rounded  there, 

Within  the  dainty  ball  and  acorn-cup, 

The  goodly  Oak  lies  packed  and  folded  up, 
Awaiting 'sun  and  rain  and  nursing  air, 

To  spread  his  leaves  and  branches  broadly  fair. 
Within  the  little,  hardened  cone  of  Pine, 


SEEDS. 


217 


There  stands  the  shaft  whose  climbing  top  shall  shine 
In  morning’s  earliest  gleam,  and  oft^n  know 
The  trailing  cloud  when  all  is  clear  below. 

The  grain  of  Hemp  encloses  weighty  bales 
Of  woven  fibre  that  shall  form,  as  sails, 

The  wings  of  Commerce.  Endless  coils  of  rope, 
Cordage  and  cable,  there  are  twfined  and  curled 
About  its  hidden  centre.  Who  would  hope 
To  see  the  ships  and  navies  of  the  world, 

Strong  knees  and  solid  ribs  of  heart-of-oak, 

That  fail  not  in  the  shock  and  thunder-stroke 
Of  storm  or  battle ; masts  of  pine  that  stand 
Rootless,  but  firm,  as  when  upon  the  land 
The  trunks  stood  rooted ; branching  spars  that  spread 
The  swelling  canvas  proudly  overhead  ; 

And  hempen  cords  that  pipe  a merry  tune 
To  the  restless  winds,  when  clouds  have  hid  the  moon : — 
What  dreamer  would  have  ever  hoped  to  see 
Huge  fleets  for  war  and  worldly  mastery, 

And  ships  for  peaceful  trade,  come  sailing  forth 
From  out  these  little  seeds? 

The  sight  is  worth, 

By  way  of  miracle,  a thousand-fold 

More  than  is  dreamed  in  Eastern  tales,  and  told 


19 


218 


SEEDS. 


Of  sudden  transformation  strangely  wrought 
By  genii,  magic,  and  I know  not  what, 

To  watch  the  marvellous  changes  swift  or  slow, 
Which  Nature  has  the  wit  and  skill  to  show 
In  living  process  and  in  growing  form, 

Waked  by  the  sun  and  strengthened  by  the  storm. 
Methods  and  shapes  are  there  which  give,  in  turn, 
The  hint  and  matter  whence  the  wise  may  learn 
New  uses  and  fresh  beauties  to  impart, 

By  the  final  touch  and  moulding  hand  of  Art. 

Drop  but  a seed  of  floweret  in  the  ground, 

What  time  the  opening  Year  makes  pleasant  days. 
O wisdom  secret,  movement  how  profound ! 

The  sunshine  comes  and  creeps  about  and  plays 
Upon  the  soil ; the  early  morning  brings 
His  dewy  tribute ; borne  on  breezy  wings, 

The  clouds  cast  shadows,  and  the  gentle  rain 
Makes  pattering  music.  Soundeth  it  in  vain  ? 

The  fall  hath  stirred  and  wakened  something ; lo  ! 
A spiry  tip  of  green  begins  to  show, 

Pushing  the  earth  aside;  and -fair  and  soon 
Buds  burst  in  beauty  to  the  louder  tune 
Of  showery  drops,  and,  opening,  spread  and  grow 
To  the  full  flower. 


SEEDS. 


219 


Go  ask,  I pray,  and  tell, 

Can  any  learned  chemist  do  as  well  ? 

Can  he  transmute  a little  rain  and  dust 
To  such  a thing  of  light  and  glory  ? He 
May  fuse  the  stubborn  ore,  and  thus  set  free 
The  lustrous  metal  from  the  masking  rust. 

Retort  and  crucible  and  fiery  heat 
May  help  him  on  to  many  a Protean  feat 
Of  cunning  transformation.  He  may  find 
New  elements  and  compounds  which  mankind 
Will  hold  as  priceless,  and  he  may  disclose 
The  fragrant  attar  lurking  in  the  rose ; 

But  yet  he  wholly  fails  to  put  together 

Such  atoms  as  the  smallest  grain  of  seed 

Can  group  and  blend,  with  help  of  favoring  weather, 

In  gayest  flower  or  plainest  way-side  weed. 

In  every  slender  blade  of  growing  grass 
There  lies  a secret  skill  that  doth  surpass 
Knowledge  and  art  of  man  ; in  every  bud 
A wonder  dwells  that  is  not  understood ; 

In  every  seed  and  bulb  and  leaf  and  tree 
Is  hid  away  a sacred  mystery. 

We  fail  to  tell  aright  the  Why  and  How 
Of  any  bud  or  blossom  on  the  bough ; 


220 


SEEDS. 


We  fail  to  lay  the  inmost  secret  bare, 

That  tints  the  flower  and  fills  the  fragrant  air 
With  odorous  breaths.  What  is  it  that  distils 
Such  essence  from  the  rugged  rocks  and  hills  ? 
What  shapes  and  holds  in  one,  earth,  air,  and  dew? 
What  changes  light  to  red  and  gold  and  blue  ? 
Whence  comes  the  hidden  and  transcendent  power 
To  form  the  bitter,  pungent,  sweet,  and  sour  ? 

What  drills  the  elements  to  wheel  and  march 
Toward  oil  and  resin,  sugar,  fibre,  starch  ? 

What  sets  the  whirl  of  freer  currents  loose 
In  fruity  pulp  and  store  of  luscious  juice  ? 

By  wThat  remote  adjustments  shrewd  and  nice 
Come  the  aroma  and  the  wafted  spice 
That  make  the  Earth  a garden,  and  the  air 
A load  of  perfume  for  the  winds  to  bear  ? 

What  knows  to  guard  the  precious  treasure  well 
By  rind  and  husk  and  prickly  barb  and  shell  ? 

In  what  alembic  doth  the  delving  root 
Digest  the  crumbling  silex,  and  transmute 
The  formless  clod  to  a thing  of  heavenly  grain  ? 

A thousand  years  have  asked,  and  asked  in  vain 
Such  questions,  and  have  failed,  as  yet,  to  touch 
The  bottom  of  the  mystery.  Although  much 


SEEDS. 


221 


Lies  writ  and  solved  in  Formula  and  Law, 

Yet  every  answer  doth  blit  lead  and  draw 
A little  deeper  down  and  further  on ; 

And  still  we  walk  as  in  the  dewy  dawn 
And  glimmering  twilight ; and  before  our  gaze, 
Vague  forms  and  shadowy  clouds  and  kindled  haze 
Float  in  the  brightening  glow  that  eastward  flecks 
The  misty  pomp  with  play  of  golden  streaks. 

We  find  in  wood  and  tangled  wild  and  mead 
A riddle  that  we  may  not  clearly  read ; 

We  find  a glory  and  a changeful  grace 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  nameless  hidden  ways 
In  downward-striking  root  and  climbing  stalk, 

That  baffle  all  our  self-complacent  talk. 

What  then,  at  last,  is  left  us  ? Though  we  find 
Our  wisdom  fail  and  halt  or  lag  behind, 

Although  with  furthest  reach  and  strain  of  wit 
We  seek  to  know,  nor  yet  can  compass  it ; 

This  treasure  s.till  is  left  us,  to  admire, 

To  love,  to  fondly  cherish,  to  desire 
A ministry  and  humble  service  where 
We  may  not  fully  know.  And  thus  we  reach 
The  joy  of  Loving  even  better  there, 

More  sweetly,  more  entirely,  that  our  speech 
19* 


222 


SEEDS. 


Is  stopped  by  Reverence,  or,  when  found,  doth  run 

To  match  with  Music,  from  the  sudden  gush 

Of  deepest  feeling;  and  a bliss  is  won 

That  other  knowledge  knows  not ; and  the  hush 

Is  broken  by  the  thrill  of  poet’s  Song 

When  Love  and  Wonder  blend,  and  find  a tongue. 

Let  naught  of  slight  or  disrespect  be  shown, 

For  this,  toward  human  wit  and  learned  skill. 

Our  Failures  only  make  the  limits  known  • 

Which  hedge  about  and  hold  the  marvellous  Will, 
Wisdom,  and  power  of  Man,  that  thereby  he 
Shall  always  feel  the  secret,  sweet  control 
Of  somewhat  Higher,  and  shall  only  be 
So  trusted  and  endowed  with  rule  and  sway 
Of  this  fair,  earthly  dwelling,  that  he  may, 

In  altering  parts,  not  shake  or  mar  the  whole, 

Nor  lose,  at  last,  from  out  his  growing  Soul, 

The  seeds  of  Virtues  which  alone  can  bless, 

Love,  Hope,  and  Faith,  and  childlike  Humbleness. 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DUSK . 


223 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DUSK. 

T71ROM  dawn  to  dusk,  from  dusk  to  dawn, 
We  spin  our  courses  round  the  sun, 

And  Spring  and  Youth  have  come  and  gone, 
And  nothing  rests  or  seemeth  done. 

The  violet  hath  smiled  and  passed, 

The  rose’s  bloom  hath  blown  away ; 

No  shape  of  grace  hath  leave  to  last, 

No  beauteous  thing  may  make  its  stay. 

Why  should  the  flower  come  forth  to  shine 
One  day,  nor  tarry  longer  here  ? 

Why  make  one  little  hour  divine, 

Then  desolate  the  dreary  year? 

The  restless  Seasons  come  and  go, 

And  leave  their  traces  as  they  pass, 

Till  we  are  changed  and  scarcely  know 
Our  altered  faces  in  the  glass. 


224 


FROM  DAWN  TO  DUSK. 


We  build  a house,  we  plant  a tree, 

We  find  a wife,  we  name  a child, 

To  quit  them  all  straightway,  and  be 
A stranger  where  the  homestead  smiled 

To  be  a memory  and  a name 

Cut  in  the  stone  and  hid  by  moss: 

We  vanish  swiftly  as  we  came, 

And  learn  the  bitterness  of  loss. 


OWNERSHIP. 


OWNERSHIP. 

TTTHO  hath  title  sure  and  good 
* ’ To  the  meadow,  sky,  and  wood 
Who  hath  most  of  ownership 
In  the  wild-flower’s  dewy  lip? 

Whose  dominions  stretch  as  far 
As  the  twinkling  light  of  star, 

Or  the  glimmer  that  he  catches 
From  the  fainter  nebulous  patches? 
Who  of  time  hath  largest  lease, 
Ownetli  happiness  and  peace, 

And  from  earth  and  life  doth  get 
Most  of  joy  and  least  of  fret? 

’T  is  not  he  whose  coffers  hold 
Heaviest  heaps  of  hoarded  gold ; 

’T  is  not  he  whose  parchments  take 
Largest  step  from  stone  to  stake, 

And  convey  from  sire  to  son 
Vast  estates  whose  titles  run 


226 


OW  NERSHIP. 


Back  through  many  a learned  word 
Unto  force  and  fraud  and  sword. 
Wealth  there  is  that  far  exceeds 
What  may  pass  by  wills  and  deeds, 
Wealth  whose  title  hides  no  flaw 
In  the  jargon  of  the  law, 

Riches  that  no  form  of  might 
Gets  and  holds  apart  from  right, 
Ownership  that  may  not  be 
Wrenched  or  slipped  away  from  me. 

He  whose  knowledge  deepest  goes 
And  whose  life  his  wisdom  shows, 
He  who  loves  the  most  and  best 
Owneth  more  than  all  the  rest, 
Finds  the  quintessential  part 
Never  sold  in  shop  or  mart, 

Worth  whose  value,  comfort,  pleasure, 
Numbers  fail  to  count  or  measure. 
Knowledge,  sympathy,  and  love 
Touch  and  enter  heaven  above, 

Find  a beauty  fair  and  sweet 
In  the  floweret  at  our  feet, 

And  in  flinty  rock  can  see 
Solid  use  and  ministry. 


OWNERSH  IP. 


227 


Health  and  Joy  the  owners  are 
Of  the  world  and  sun  and  star. 

Shady  forest,  smiling  lawn, 

Dusk  of  evening,  flush  of  dawn, 

Song  of  bird  and  voice  of  rill, 

Stretch  of  vale  and  slope  of  hill, 
Nature’s  riches  and  the  part 
Added  thereunto  by  Art, 

All  the  miracles  that  Man 
Has  the  cunning  wit  to  plan 
And  the  skill,  to  fashion  fair, 

Pictures,  music-shaken  air, 

Vast  cathedrals,  sculptured  stone, 
Works  that  Time  hath  overthrown, 
Wreck  and  ruin,  ashes,  dust;  — 

All  of  these  are  theirs,  and  must 
Stay  with  them,  nor  ever  choose 
Heartiest  service  to  refuse. 

Men  may  count  their  sharp  per-cents, 
Gather  tithes,  distrain  for  rents, 

And  amass  the  minted  ore, 

Craving  still  for  more  and  more, 

And  with  every  reckoned  gain 
Find  fresh  poverty  and  pain. 


228 


OWNERSHIP. 


What  we  have  yet  fail  to  use 
Is  the  thing  we  wholly  lose. 

Bury  worth,  and  straightway,  lo! 
Unto  rust  the  riches  go. 

Number  may  not  all  express 
What  hath  most  of  preciousness, 
Nor  is  rarest  value  told 
In  the  sums  of  shining  gold. 
Meanness  finds  in  wealth  a care  ; 
Greed  makes  poor  the  millionaire. 

All  the  best  that  nature  yields 
Comes  to  me  across  the  fields, 

Or  from  out  the  heavenly  blue 
Falls  as  softly  as  the  dew, 

Or  above  me  in  the  cloud 
Singeth  with  the  lark  aloud; 

More  and  more  is  given  to  me 
As  I learn  to  hear  and  see, 

And  the  larger  joy  and  store 
As  I learn  to  love  the  more 
Every  gift,  and  yet  would  share 
What  hath  most  of  sweet  and  rare, 
And  be  only  richer  still 
For  the  largeness  of  my  will. 


OWNERSHIP . 


229 


Let  my  neighbor  keep  in  trim 
Park  and  lawn — Why  envy  him? 
Wherefore  no^  rejoice  that  he 
Service  rendereth  unto  me, 

If  his  work  and  worth  become 
Part  of  me,  and  add  their  sum 
To  the  wealth  and  joy  I find 

Stored  and  centred  in  the  mind. 

20 


230 


UNTO  THE  HOURS  OF  DUSK. 


UNTO  THE  HOURS  OF  DUSK. 


U 


JSTTO  the  hours  of  dusk  belong 
The  sweetest  utterances  of  song. 


The  lark,  at  dawning,  heavenward  wings 
His  happy  flight  and  soaring  sings. 


And  when  the  evening  shadows  fall, 
The  most  melodious  bird  of  all 
Sings  on  alone.  Thus  dawn  and  dark 
Are  cheered  by  nightingale  and  lark. 


ASPIRA  TION. 


231 


ASPIRATION. 

TTTE  plan  and  purpose  grandly,  dreaming  dreams 
* * Which  dv/arf  achievement;  and  our  large  desires 
Reach  to  the  Possible.  Our  fancy  teems 
With  shapes  beyond  our  grasp.  The  soul  aspires 
Upward  and  on,  and  will  not  stay  content 
With  present  state  or  treasure.  It  hath  such 
A vast  ambition,  so  divine  a touch 
And  trace  of  its  far  source,  though  housed  and  pent 
In  narrow  limit,  that  it  may  not  rest 
At  any  station.  We  are  only  blest 
In  movement,  aspiration,  life,  and  growth. 

And  in  our  weakness  thus  we  gather  force, 

And  shake  off  drowsiness,  and  rouse  from  sloth, 
Drawn,  stirred,  and  quickened,  in  the  changeful  course 
That  lies  between  the  bounds  of  birth  and  death. 

Thus  it  is  well  to  spend  our  mortal  breath, 
Narrowing  the  gap  that  widely  separates 
Knowledge  from  action,  duty  from  the  deed, 


232 


ASPIRA  TION. 


Bridging  the  awful  chasm  between  the  states 
Conceived  and  actual,  sowing  precious  seed 
Whereof  we  may  not  see  the  flower  or  fruit, 

Save  by  prophetic  vision  and  large  hope, 

And  from  this  lowly  stand-point,  finding  scope 
For  what  is  god-like  in  us.  Blind  and  mute, 
Gross  and  unworthy  are  those  dreary  lives 
That  wake  not  into  vision  and  to  song, 

Amid  the  beauty  and  the  choral  throng 
Of  wonders  round  them,  and  that  feel  no  need 
Beyond  brute  wants,  and  are  content  to  feed 
On  husks  and  draff.  But  he  who  greatly  strives 
After  the  light  and  harmony  divine, 

Although  he  fail  to  reach  it,  and  attain 
To  no  serene  contentment  for  his  pain, 

Labor,  and  waiting,  yet  at  last  shall  rest 
Cleared  of  all  baseness,  and  shall  sing  and  shine 
Sweeter  and  brighter,  and  shall  be  more  blest, 
Even  in  failure,  sorrow,  toil,  defeat, 

Than  those  who  never  feel  how  incomplete 
Our  life  and  work  is,  measured  at  its  best. 


ON  WAR  D. 


233 


ONWARD.. 


fTlHE  Present  may  not  hold  us,  nor  the  Past, 

Though  stored  in  memory,  garnered  up  in  books, 
Sculptured  in  stone,  or  builded  strong  and  vast, 

Or  fixed  in  colors  that  entrance  the  sight, 

Or  voiced  to  music.  Like  the  babbling  brooks 
Forward  we  press ; nor  can  the  mountain-height 
Whence  we  have  fallen,  nor  the  blooming  plain 
Cause  us  to  linger.  Toward  the  boundless  main 
We  move  through  all  the  curves  to  left  and  right, 

To  find  our  current  but  a drop  of  rain 
Lost  in  the  Ocean.  Where  the  Future  lies 
Clouded  and  dim,  but  lit  with  rainbow-dyes 
Of  Hope’s  illusions,  thither  we  press  on 
To  meet  the  Unknown  and  suffer  change  of  state. 

The  night  has  vanished  ; mists  of  early  dawn 
Have  thinned  to  air ; but  evening’s  glories  wait 
To  round  the  day  and  bring  again  the  night, 

With  rest  and  silence,  dreams  and  starry  light. 

20* 


234 


ONWARD. 


With  rest  and  darkness  full  of  dreamy  ease : 
With  silence,  said  I ? Lo,  the  nightingale 
Finds  then  the  happiest  hour  of  all  to  please 
His  wakeful  mate,  and  fill  the  listening  vale 
With  music  such  as  loud  and  busy  day 
Had  not  the  soul  to  hear.  The  steadfast  stars 
Keep  watch  and  ward  with  many-twinkling  ray. 
The  star  of  Love  is  there,  and  fiery  Mars 
Pours  through  the  blue  his  red  and  murky  gleam. 
?T  is  Rest,  not  Death.  The  pulse  of  nature  stirs, 
And  night  no  less  than  fretful  day  is  hers. 
Anchored  by  distance,  fixed  and  stable  seem 
The  throbbing  lights  which  closer  vision  shows 
To  find  in  ceaseless  movement  their  repose. 

Motion  and  life  bring  change  of  state  and  form : 
The  calm  is  gathering  forces  for  the  storm, 

And  silence  breeds  the  thunder  that  shall  shake 
The  very  hill-tops.  All  the  azure  vault 
Wheels  round,  nor  suffers  momentary  halt, 

And  brings  again  the  dewy  lights  that  break 
Along  the  East,  when,  heralding  the  sun, 

The  clouds  grow  bright  and  show  the  day  begun. 


PALEONTOLOGICAL. 


235 


PALEONTOLOGICAL. 

TN  ancient  days  of  fire  and  flood, 

■*“  Amid  the  dusk  and  dawn  of  Time, 

What  monsters  wallowed  in  the  mud, 

And  sprawled  and  crawled  among  the  slime! 

What  teeth  and  tusks  and  ravenous  jaws, 
Sepulchral  throats  to  growl  and  howl, 

And  things  with  leathern  wings  and  claws, 
Huge  bat-like  cross  of  beast  and  fowl! 

What  demon  eyes  to  flash  and  glare 
From  jungle  reeking  in  the  sun, 

And  horny  beaks  to  pierce  and  tear, 

And  hideous  legs  to  glide  and  run! 

Vast,  horrid  shapes  to  fly  and  swim, 

Reptiles  to  writhe  and  coil  and  creep, 

And  mouths  to  crunch  the  forest- limb, 

And  fins  to  lash  to  foam  the  deep; 


238 


PALEONTOL  OGICAL. 


Gigantic,  uncouth,  hybrid  forms, 

To  clutch  and  rend,  to  gorge  and  die, 

Filled  all  the  seething  land  in  swarms, 

And  flapped  their  shadows  from  the  sky. 

Rough  sketches  of  the  things  to  be, 

Prime  fashionings  of  the  plastic  clay, 

When  air  and  earth  were  mixed  with  sea, 

And  fog  with  fire,  and  night  with  day. 

As  yet  those  sharper  lines  undrawn 

Which  through  the  realms  of  nature  run, 
These  swam,  crept,  floundered  through  the  dawn, 
Fish,  lizard,  serpent  blent  in  one. 

Such  was  the  earliest  nest  and  brood; 

Tornado,  flood,  volcanic  stream, 

And  shapes  to  match,  strange,  huge,  and  rude, 
When  Nature  first  began  the  dream 

Of  Life  and  Growth.  But  these  have  gone, 
They  now  are  crumbled  into  dust, 

Or  left  in  imprint  on  the  stone, 

Or  buried  underneath  the  crust 


PALEONTOLOGICAL. 


237 


Of  countless  Ages.  And  we  find 

Tooth,  plate,  shell,  bone,  organic  trace, 

As  all  that  now  is  left  behind 

Of  myriad  forms  which  once  had  place 

And  rioted  amid  the  gloom 

Of  swamp  and  thicket.  It  remains 
To  reconstruct  what  we  exhume 

From  hill-sides,  valleys,  mountains,  plains ; 

While  beauty,  joy,  intelligence, 

Now  strike  their  roots  and  bud  and  blow, 
And  charm  the  soul  and  wake  the  sense, 
Where  tendrils  clasp  and  gardens  glow. 

This  endless  work  remains  for  man, 

To  traverse  Time  through  all  its  reach, 

To  thrid  the  mazes  of  the  Plan 

That  binds  together  All  with  Each, 

And,  founded  on  the  rocks,  doth  run 
Through  grade  and  rank  of  Being,  till 
It  leads  to  God,  the  Eternal  One, 

And  rests  in  Him  as  Mind  and  Will. 


238  PALEONTOLOGICAL. 

We  touch  not  Origin  the  more 

By  travelling  back  to  fire  and  mist; 

The  soul  still  asks  what  was  before 
The  dark  by  radiant  dawn  was  kissed. 

What  held  and  filled  the  void  of  Space, 
What  gave  the  form  to  cooling  spheres, 

What  fixed  the  orbits  in  their  place 
And  led  the  circling  march  of  Years? 

Mere  ministers  are  Heat  and  Weight, 
With  tireless  might  to  run  the  round 

Of  change  on  change  from  state  to  state, 
By  Law  themselves  securely  bound. 

Nor  do  we  reach  and  grasp  the  End 
Of  what  in  cyclic  course  is  whirled, 

Save  as  we  rise  and  upward  tend 

Toward  God  as  Maker  of  the  World ; 

Toward  God  as  Origin  and  Way, 

As  Means  and  End,  as  Life  and  Light, 

Whose  presence  is  the  Eternal  Day, 
Whose  absence  would  be  starless  Night 


COME,  FADING  LIGHT . 


^od 


COME,  FADING  LIGHT. 

/^(OME,  fading  light,  come,  starry  night, 

^ Come,  dreamy  hours,  so  sweet  and  tender ; 
Love  cannot  bear  the  dazzling  glare 
Of  sunshine  and  the  golden  splendor. 

But  when  each  star  gleams  from  afar, 

And  opes  and  shuts  its  twinkling  glory ; 
When  lights  do  sink  and  candles  wink, 

Then  Love  grows  bold  to  tell  his  story. 

The  dusk  and  dim  is  the  hour  for  him 
To  breathe  the  vow  and  steal  the  kisses  ; 
The  dusk  and  hush  will  hide  the  blush 
And  thrill  with  all  the  whispered  blisses. 


240 


THE  PORCELAIN  VASE 


THE  PORCELAIN  VASE. 

A PORCELALN  Vase,  while  baking  one  day 
In  the  furnace  of  affliction, 

Would  preach  to  the  commoner  sort  of  clay 
Words  of  comfort  and  benediction:  — 

“Ye  Vessels  and  Shapes  of  dishonor  and  wrath, 
Be  of  cheer  as  the  fire  grows ' hotter ; 
Remember  what  power  the  soft  clay  hath 
In  the  shaping  hands  of  the  potter.” 

But  the  Shapes  replied,  “O  Porcelain  Vase, 
Your  words  would  be  less  like  mockery, 

If  preached  with  a less  complacent  face, 

By  a plainer  kind  of  crockery. 

“Told  in  another  style  and  air, 

We  might  learn  with  some  docility. 

From  another  sort  of  Earthen  Ware, 

To  be  baked  with  due  Humility.” 


CONFESSION. 


241 


CONFESSION. 


^^"HOLLY  am  I known  to  you; 

Every  glance  has  read  me  through. 
Wherefore  then  need  language  tell 
What  you  know,  alas!  too  well, 

How  completely  I am  bound, 

Caught  in  meshes,  tangled  round 
With  a web  from  which  I would 
Not  escape,  e’en  if  I could. 

How  far  is  he  prisoner 

Who  the  thraldom  doth  prefer? 

How  far  serf  or  slave  is  he 
Who  desires  not  to  be  free? 

Master  am  I now  no  more 
Of  myself  as  I was  before. 
Self-sufficiency  is  gone ; 

Toward  another  self  I ’m  drawn, 

Must  tend  thither,  must  be  there. 

No  more,  vital  is  the  air 
Q 


21 


242 


CONFESSION. 


Breathed  afar  from  where  thou  art. 
Pulses  languish,  and  the  heart 
Only  hath  a leaden  pain. 

Till  thou  comest  near  again. 
Presence  life  is,  absence  death ; 

Thou  to  me  the  very  breath 
Of  my  being  hast  become, 

Centre,  happiness,  and  home. 

H What  there  is  in  soul  or  sense, 
Most  delicious,  most  intense, 

Past  the  utmost  power  of  speech, 
Past  imagination’s  reach, 

That  thy  nature  is  to  mine, 
Sunlight,  fragrance,  dew-drops,  wine, 
Music,  breath  of  flowers,  the  dawn, 
Starlight  when  the  day  is  gone, 

Part  of  every  creature’s  best, 

And  surpassing  all  the  rest. 

Call  this  frenzy,  call  it  love, 

Reason  on  it,  clearly  prove 
That  ’t  is  folly  most  insane, 

Yet  the  fact  will  still  remain, 

And  the  store  of  happiness 
Never  grow  a whit  the  less. 


t 


CONFESSION . 


243 


Nay,  you  tell  the  folly  o'er 
And  its  sweetness  turns  to  more 
Reasserts  itself  and  grows 
From  the  bud  to  the  full-blown 
Madness  is  it?  Pray  commend 
Unto  such  disease,  or  end  me: 
Better  die,  than  to  endure 
Pains  and  tortures  of  a cure. 


> 

rose. 

me 


244 


A SONG  OF  SPRING. 


* 


A SONG  OF  SPRING. 

PT1HE  light  of  Spring  begins  to  fling 

Soft  shadows,  where  the  cloudlets  pass ; 

And  music  floats  from  warbling  throats, 

And  nests  are  thick  in  leaves  and  grass. 

When  Morn  awakes,  the  dewy  brakes 
Are  filled  with  ringing  minstrelsy ; 

And  Evening  goes  to  sweet  repose, 

Drowsed  by  the  song  from  dusky  tree. 

The  bobolink  sings  by  the  brink 
Of  willowy  brook  that  glides  along; 

And  the  oriole  gives  forth  his  soul 
In  sudden  flash  of  flight  and  song. 

From  topmost  bough,  the  thrush  pours  now 
Full-throated  song  in  gushing  flood; 

And  the  meadow-lark  shrills  clear,  and  hark 
To  the  dove  that  flutes  within  the  wood. 


A SONG  OF  SPRING. 


245 


The  chattering  wren  is  back  again ; 

The  catbird  mocks  by  the  garden  wall; 

The  robin  fills  the  grove,  and  trills 
The  earliest,  loudest  lay  of  all. 

“Why  is  the  air  pulsed  everywhere 

By  bird  that  flits  and  builds  and  sings : 

This  song  and  rout,  what  is ’t  about, 

This  gush  of  throats,  and  flash  of  wings  ?” 

I asked : and  then,  by  hill  and  glen, 

A hush  came  o’er  the  startled  throng, 

Until  the  dove  made  answer,  “Love, 

Love  builds  the  nest  and  sings  the  song.” 

Then,  far  and  high  through  all  the  sky, 

The  notes  rose  doubly  sweet  and  loud, 

Till  Echo  heard  each  warbling  bird, 

And  passed  the  song  from  cloud  to  cloud. 

A light  shot  through  the  heaven  of  blue, 

The  parted  clouds  grew  warm  and  red ; 

A low  breath  shook  the  rippling  brook, 

And  something  stirred  my  soul,  and  said, — 
21  * 


A SONG  OF  SPRING. 


“ Shall  only  voice  of  bird  rejoice, 

And  love  and  gladness  fill  the  grove 
Shall  all  the  Spring  thus  love  and  sing 
And  I not  sing  my  Song  of  Love  ? ” 


0 UI DANCE. 


247 


' GUIDANCE. 

T)EFORE  death  snuffs  our  little  taper  out, 

We  may  inflame  a torch  whose  light  shall  shine 
Down  the  long  reach  of  years,  and  put  to  rout 
The  powers  of  darkness.  Is  it  not  divine 
Thus  to  live  on  defying  death  and  night ; 

Thus  to  make  earth  more  beautiful  and  bright 
For  having  seen  its  loveliness,  and  gone 
To  dust  and  darkness  -from  the  dew  and  dawn ; 

Thus  to  be  present  and  to  find  a voice 
Oblivion  may  not  silence,  nor  the  noise 
Or  havoc  smother?  They  feel  least  of  death, 

Who,  rounding  life  by  death,  still  stir  the  breath 
Of  all  the  throbbing  present,  and  attend 
And  guide  the  mighty  movement  toward  an  end 
That  lies  far  in  the  future,  and  shall  be 
Fresh  starting-point  for  us  so  soon  as  we 
Shall  touch  the  goal.  Here  do  they  still  abide 
Present  and  helpful  with  us;  by  our  side 


248  GUIDANCE. 

They  come  and  take  their  station.  More  and 
They  leaders  are,  that  they  have  gone  before, 
And  fathomed  all  there  is  of  worst  and  best 
In  Life  and  Death,  the  burden  and  the  rest. 


more 


ON  VIEWING  A MUMMY. 


249 


ON  VIEWING  A MUMMY. 

A H,  Time  and  Death  make  sorry  sport 
■ With  Life  and  Glory.  Pharaoh’s  court 
Must  pass  to  mummy,  and  be  hid 
By  gloomy  pomp  of  pyramid. 

Is  this  the  end,  do  what  we  can, 

Of  all  the  pride  and  state  of  man? 

Of  Beauty  shall  there  naught  remain 
But  shrivelled  form  and  shrunken  vein  ? 
Could  thought  and  fancy  once  have  filled 
That  empty  skull?  Has  passion  thrilled 
The  ghastly  horror  of  those  lips? 

What  long  and  piteous  eclipse 
Have  joy  and  splendor  undergone ! 

The  dew  and  freshness  of  the  dawn 
Are  dust  and  ashes,  and  the  light 
Has  fallen  down  to  starless  night. 

Is  this  the  flower,  is  this  the  bloom 
That  pleases  Death,  and  makes  the  tomb 


250 


ON  VIEWING  A MUMMY. 


Perpetual  guardian?  Better  pass 
Through  air  and  mould  to  tree  and  grass, 
Around  the  circle,  than  remain 
A hideous  presence,  and  in  vain 
Attempt  to  check  the  atomic  play 
That  holds  the  world  within  its  sway. 


THE  SUMMER  IS  OVER. 


251 


THE  SUMMER  IS  OVER. 

mHE  Summer  is  over;  no  bee  haunts  the  clover, 

No  bird  blithely  sings  by  his  nest  in  the  tree ; 
The  honey  is  gathered ; the  birdlings  are  feathered 
And  flown  far  away,  with  the  Seasons,  from  me. 

When  Spring-time  was  budding,  and  sunlight  came 
flooding, 

From  the  blue  overhead,  wood,  meadow,  and  field, 
The  bird  was  full-throated  with  song ; yet  I noted 
That  he  did  not  forget  to  plan  and  to  build. 

When  Summer  unfolded  buds  daintily  moulded, 

And  the  warm  light  slept  in  the  heart  of  the  flowers, 
The  bee  was  far  wiser  than  to  play  the  despiser 
Of  Time,  by  not  hiving  the  wealth  of  the  hours. 

% 

But  I,  foolish  dreamer,  idealist,  schemer, 

Did  nothing  but  dream  while  the  Season  slipt  by ; 
Now  when  I grow  sober,  behold,  *t  is  October, 

And  the  bird  and  the  bee  have  been  wiser  than  I. 


252  BENEATH  THE  STEEPLE'S  DIZZY  HEIGHT. 


BENEATH  THE  STEEPLE’S  DIZZY 
HEIGHT. 


T)ENEATH  the  Steeple’s  dizzy  height 
^ I enter,  where  the  day  is  dim 
With  soft  and  many-colored  light, 

And  voices  chant  the  choral  hymn. 


Upon  the  floor  the  sunshine  lies, 

Of  rainbow-hues  a broken  mass, 

From  where  it  pours  a thousand  dyes 
Through  windows  rich  with  tinted  glass. 


The  walls  uplift  the  chiselled  stone, 

The  arches  rise  in  airy  grace, 

The  organ  sends  its  mellow  tone 

Through  all  the  stillness  of  the  place. 


The  tablets  bear  a sacred  Name; 

I hear  the  solemn  words  that  fall 
From  Holy  Book,  of  One  who  came 
To  live  and  die  for  each  and  all. 


BENEATH  THE  STEEPLE’S  DIZZY  HEIGHT.  253 


Thus  through  the  avenues  of  sense, 

1 strive  to  lift  my  soul  to  Thee, 

Who  art  the  only  Fountain  whence 

All  flows  that  is,  or  is  to  be. 

But  ah,  how  dull  the  outward  ear, 

The  vision  of  the  eye  how  blind ! 

I fail  to  see  and  feel  Thee  near, 

Who  must  be  worshipped  by  the  mind. 

The  soul  sincere,  the  lowly  heart 
Alone,  O God,  to  Thee  draws  nigh, 
Without  a single  help  of  Art, 

Or  other  music  than  a sigh. 

22 


254  NAUGHT  RESTS  AS  IN  AN  END. 


NAUGHT  RESTS  AS  IN  AN  END. 


"AT AUGHT  rests  as  in  an  End.  All  forward  presses 
From  Life  to  Death,  from  Death  to  Life  again. 
The  buds,  wherein  the  Spring  her  joy  expresses, 
Pass  on  to  fruit,  till  Winter  comes,  and  then 
All  seemeth  done;  yet  warmly  wrapped  beneath 
Encircling  folds  and  hidden  by  their  sheath 
Sleep  next  Year’s  blossoms,  and  await  their  time. 
Day  follows  night,  and  night  doth  chase  the  day ; 
We  touch  a goal  and  yet  we  make  no  stay, 

But  onward,  upward  must  we  ever  climb. 

Rest  is  for  labor,  sleep  to  gather  might, 

The  darkness  used  prepares  us  for  the  light, 

Discord  resolved  gives  harmony  more  sweet, 

And  Silence,  duly  set,  doth  make  the  Song  complete. 


THE  R OSE-B  U D. 


255 


THE  ROSE-BUD. 

T OYE  once  crept  within  a bud 
On  a rose-bush  growing, 

While,  near  by,  a maiden  stood, 
Fairer,  sweeter,  gigwing. 

Quoth  the  maiden,  “ I will  clip 
This  exquisite  beauty, 

Ere  the  bee  has  chance  to  slip 
In  and  take  his  booty.” 

Saying  thus,  the  bud  she  took, 

She,  a lovelier  blossom, 

And  she  dropt  it,  as  she  spoke, 

Deep  within  her  bosom. 

Did  Love  stay  tucked  up  and  prim? 

Think  you  cunning  Cupid, 

After  all  you’ve  heard  of  him, 

Could  have  been  so  stupid? 


256 


THE  ROSE-BUD. 


Quoth  the  maiden,  “ Lack-a~day ! ” 
Out  the  rose-bud  flinging, 

“ ’T  is  no  naughty  bee,  I pray, 

That  shall  end  by  stinging.” 

But  for  all  that  she  could  do, 

Sighs  or  tears  or  laughter, 
Something  pleased,  but  smarted  too, 
Many  a day  thereafter. 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


257 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTUBIES. 

TTTHAT  bravery  there  is  in  Man,  and  what  far- 
v * reaching  hope, 

Desires  that  nothing  can  defeat,  and  aims  beyond  the 
scope 

And  reach  of  accident  or  death,  and  plans  whose  pur- 
pose lies 

Above  the  topmost  heights  of  earth  and  touches  on 
the  skies. 

And  yet,  how  fragile,  brief,  and  weak ; scarce  hath  he 
leave  to  run 

A score  of  circles,  with  the  year,  around  the  steadfast 
sun. 

The  morning  dew,  the  evening  cloud,  the  glory  of  the 
flower, 

The  grass  that  feels  the  mower’s  scythe  and  dies  the 
self-same  hour ; 

These  are  the  types  of  transciency,  the  symbols  that 
befit 

The  narrow  span  of  human  life,  and  all  enclosed  by  it. 


22  * 


K 


258 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


Tribes  disappear,  and  nations  pass,  in  dim  procession, 
down 

The  vista  of  the  historic  page,  and  dust  and  ashes  crown 

The  splendor  of  the  olden  Past ; the  broken  shaft  and 
arch 

But  signalize  the  temple’s  pride  and  the  triumphal 
march. 

And  perched  upon  the  lofty  crag,  the  ruined  castle 
stands, 

And  cities  wdielmed  in  lava  lie,  or  hid  beneath  the  sands. 

Where  hath  the  mighty  monarch  gone,  with  all  his 
courtly  train? 

Have  pomp  and  state  and  marshalled  hosts  been  utterly 
in  vain  ? 

Doth  Kuin  wait  for  all  that-  dwells  and  shines  beneath 
the  sun? 

The  glory  of  a thousand  years,  must  it  be  all  undone  ? 

The  hundred-gated  Thebes  has  fallen,  and  where  Pal- 
myra stood,  ^ 

The  owlet  hoots  and  breeds  her  young  in  the  pillared 
solitude. 

The  site  may  now  be  scarcely  found,  where  Ninus  had 
his  throne, 

And  Babylon  and  Persepolis  in  all  their  glory  shone. 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


259 


The  builder  hath  no  skill  to  build,  ’t  is  not  in  stone  or 
brass  * 

To  stand  the  envious  touch  of  time ; the  Ages  slowly 
pass, 

And  bear  the  works  of  man  away,  nor  leave  at  last  a 
trace 

Of  all  the  show  and  circumstance  that  filled  the  highest 
place. 

What  though  the  Desert  howl  where  once  the  mar- 
ket’s busy  hum 

Was  heard  through  all  the  crowded  streets ; what  though 
the  sounds  be  dumb 

Of  mirth  and  song  on  Festal  days,  and  silent  pilgrim 
find 

But  shattered  fragments  of  the  things  the  Past  hath 
left  behind : 

All  has  not  changed  nor  dwarfed  nor  died ; all  is  not 
dust,  and  blown 

By  the  blinding  winds,  but  stands  and  lives  and  is  the 
greater  grown. 

The  Present  feels  a fuller  life  and  draws  a larger 
breath, 

Because  it  strikes  a deeper  root  within  the  realms  of 
Death. 


260 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


New  cities  rise  instead  of  those  that  crumble  and  decay  ; 

New  Institutions  shape  the  world,  as  others  pass  away ; 

New  forms  of  Thought  and  Life  and  Power,  transcend- 
ing far  the  old, 

Come  forth  to  sway  the  Centuries ; then  pass  to  dust 
and  mould. 

But  not  till  they  have  left  a seed,  do  they  .become  the 
soil 

From  which  a richer  harvest  springs,  with  less  of  human 
toil. 

Thus  rise  we  far  above  the  wrecks  that  Time  and 
Change  repeat ; 

Thus  triumph  over  accident,  and  thus  ignore  defeat. 

The  fair  illusion  never  dies : Hope  lives ; and  every 
dawn 

Fills  all  the  East  as  fresh  and  full  as  in  the  ages 
gone. 

We  sing  the  joyous  song  of  Youth;  the  world  is  ever 
young ; 

As  bright  a sun  is  in  the  sky  as  ancient  Homer  sung. 

Three  thousand  years  of  storm  and  cloud  have  failed 
to  dim  a ray  ; 

And  he  shall  shine,  for  thousands  more,  as  brightly  as 
to-day. 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES . 


261 


And,  still,  above  the  crash  of  Troy,  is  Homer’s  music 
heard ; 

By  that  immortal  flow  of  song  the  present  hour  is 
stirred ; 

Nor  will  the  coming  days  consent  to  lose  a single  strain, 

But  read  with  rapture  every  note,  again  and  yet  again. 

No  sweeter  flowers  were  in  the  field,  nor  buds  upon  the 
bough, 

In  the  Golden  Years  of  which  we  dream,  than  show 
their  beauty  now; 

No  happier  pulses  stirred  the  blood,  in  all  the  Olden 
Time, 

Than  throb  within  the  breasts  of  those  who  now  are  in 
their  prime. 

Let  mosses  creep  upon  the  wall  and  ivy  climb  the  tower ; 

Let  Ruin  mark  the  ancient  seats  of  worldly  Pomp  and 
Power ; 

Let  helmet,  shield,  and  coat  of  mail  be  eaten  by  the 
rust; 

Let  antiquary  grope  his  way  among  historic  dust ; — 

A wholesome  reverence  for  the  Old,  a sense  of  every 
Grace 

That  shines  and  lingers  round  the  Past,  and  lights  the 
marble  face 


262 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


Of  Death  itself,  shall  not  withdraw  my  heart  from  all 
that  moves 

And  breathes,  and  fills  the  present  Hour,  a>nd  works 
and  hopes  and  loves. 

Be  mine  the  heart  that  still  is  young,  though  Time  be 
old  and  gray  ; 

Be  mine  the  Faith  in  Man,  that  years  shall  fail  to  drift 
away. 

The  central  points  of  worldly  power,  through  ages, 
shift  their  seat, 

With  shock  of  races,  waste,  and  war,  and  triumph,  and 
defeat. 

Nations  are  born  and  live  and  die ; Kingdoms  arise 
and  fall ; 

The  mighty  flood  of  Time  sweeps  on,  and  bears  them 
one  and  all 

Upon  its  restless  waves.  But  he  who  watches  well  the 
flow 

Fails  not  to  see  the  onward  course,  although  the  cur- 
rents show 

An  eddying  whirl  along  the  banks  and  where  the 
channel  bends, 

And  man  is  swiftly  borne  around  to  new  and  better 
ends. 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES . 


263 


When  Serfdom  dies,  when  Slavery  falls,  there  is  a deaf- 
ening roar, 

As  when  Niagara  thunders  down  and  shakes  the  rocky 
shore, 

To  calm  his  torrent  in  the  lake,  and  shape  his  course, 
and  be 

A larger  river,  flowing  on  to  meet  the  engulfing 
sea. 

Through  smoke  and  flash  and  clouded  lights,  what 
shadows  go  and  come, 

With  shout  and  shriek  of  battle-field,  with  trumpet, 
sword,  and  drum  ! 

The  cannonade,  the  bursting  shell,  the  din  and  clash  of 
War, 

Have  sounded  through  the  Centuries,  and  left  their 
gash  and  scar 

Across  the  brow  and  front  of  Time;  and  men  and 
nations  show 

With  what  relentless  force  they  dealt  the  swift  and 
staggering  blow 

That  hurled  each  other  from  the  height  and  chiefest 
seat  of  power, 

And  wrought  the  ruin  of  an  age,  within  a frenzied 
hour. 


264 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES . 


Behold  the  siege  and  sack  of  towns ! Are  those  the. 
deeds  of  men, 

Or  demons  stung  with  rage  and  loosed  from  some 
infernal  den, 

When  lust  and  madness  stalk  abroad,  and  murder’s 
arm  is  bared 

To  drain  the  very  dregs  of  life,  that  fire  and  famine 
spared. 

At  morn  the  fields  were  fresh  and  fair,  the  sky  was 
cloudless  blue; 

The  river  poured  its  azure  vein  of  light  and  music 
through 

The  smiling  landscape.  Evening  came;  the  fields  were 
ploughed  with  shot, 

The  harvest  lay  a trampled  waste,  the  sky  was  red  and 
hot 

With  clouds  of  smoke  and  lurid  glare,  the  river  ran 
with  blood ; 

And  who  would  know  the  pleasant  spot  whereon  the 
town  had  stood  ? 

By  the  Euphrates,  and  the  banks  where  the  Tigris 
pours  his  stream, 

The  Bace  awoke ; the  world  began ; it  was  the  morning 
dream 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES.  265 

Of  Earth  and  Man.  Then,  by  the  Nile,  that  cleaves 
its  fertile  course 

Between  the  deserts,  Wisdom  lived,  and  gathered  head 
and  force, 

Till,  issuing  forth,  the  Hebrew  saw  the  smoking  Moun- 
tain Peak, 

And  Conscience  heard  the  voice  of  God  from  out  the 
darkness  speak. 

Then  Beauty  came  awhile  to  dwell  by  the  thousand 
rills  of  Greece;' 

And  Strength,  beside  the  Tiber’s  wave,  built  palaces  of 
Ease, 

And  grew  corrupt  through  luxury;  when,  like  the 
Danube’s  flood, 

Barbaric  hordes  came  pouring  down,  and  would  have 
swept  the  good 

And  bad  commixed  from  off  the  Earth,  had  Nature 
. not  decreed 

To  right  and  worth,  new  place  of  growth  and  an 
immortal  seed. 

From  out  the  humming  Northern  hive,  the"  Vandal, 
Goth,  and  Hun, 

Came  swarming  fast  to  fill  the  lands  whereon  a genial 


sun 

23 


266 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


Had  scattered  flowers  and  ripened  grains,  and  where 
his  lustre  fell 

On  chiselled  shaft  and  rounded  dome  and  tower  and 
citadel. 

And  Rome,  that  gave  her  wise  decrees,  and  held  her 
ready  sword 

Above  the  necks  of  countless  Kings,  and  made  her 
slightest  word 

The  law  and  rule  to  savage  Might,  at  last,  must  feel 
the  ills 

That  Time  and  Change  know  how  to  work ; and  from 
her  Seven  Hills, 

The  sceptre  of  the  World  was  gone.  If  such  a doom 
could  wait 

The  Queen  among  the  Nations,  who  may  hope  for 
other  fate? 

Then,  from  the  Desert’s  burning  sands,  a cloud  of 
locusts  blew 

Across  the  sea,  and  Arab  might  was  felt  in  Spain,  and 
grew 

To  such  a pitch,  that  not  content,  the  Pyrenees  were 
passed, 

And  Europe,  at  the  sudden  sight,  a moment  stood 
aghast. 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


267 


Then  Sword  was  clashed  with  Scimetar,  the  Crescent 
with  the  Cross ; 

It  seemed  as  if  the  World  was  staked  upon  the  gain 
or  loss 

Of  battle-field.  ’T  was  which  shall  rule,  the  Turban 
or  the  Crown  ? 

Shall  Christian  might  recoil  and  fall,  or  Islam  tumble 
down? 

When,  gathering  all  his  heart  and  strength,  the  arm  of 
Charles  Martel 

Struck,  in  the  field  of  Tours,  a blow,  and  smote  so  hard 
and  well, 

That  Arab  power  went  reeling  back  and  sank  upon  the 
ground, 

And,  with  the  echo  of  the  stroke,  the  Ages  still  re- 
sound. 

Where  old  Byzantium  had  stood  new  domes  began 
to  shine, 

And  on  the  Bosphorus  was  built  the  pride  of  Constan- 
tine ; 

And  Law  and  Learning  found  a seat  and  refuge  there, 
and  dwelt 

Until  the  Moslem  came  again  and  made  his  presence 
felt 


268 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


Through  shuddering  Christendom,  and  such  a Southern 
storm  broke  forth 

As  threatened  Europe  more  than  all  the  fury  of  the 
North. 

Then  rose  the  Turk  to  hold  the  East.  The  pilgrim’s 
Sacred  Shrine 

Was  in  the  hands  of  infidels.  Awake  — for  Palestine ! 

The  wTorld  resounds,  and  every  heart  is  stirred,  and 
nations  rise 

For  rescue  of  the  Sepulchre ; the  number  multiplies 

Until  the  vast  procession  pours  a European  host 

Upon  the  shores  of  Asia,  and  fills  the  thronging  coast. 

The  crowded  ranks  for  Centuries  keep  surging  to  and  fro ; 

Kings,  nobles,  warriors,  pilgrims,  priests,  make  up  the 
motley  show. 

The  lines  of  march  are  white  with  bones  that  bleach  in 
wind  and  sun, 

Of  those  who  perished  by  the  way  ; and  fields  are  lost 
and  won. 

Besieged  and  held  is  Antioch ; the  Sepulchre  is  free  ; 

The  Sultan  flies  at  Ascalon,  there ’s  shout  and  victory 

Of  stubborn  hearts  where  Acre  stands ; yet  gone  is  all 
the  gain : 

The  toil  and  blood  of  Christian  hosts  are  utterly  in  vain. 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


269 


And  still  the  Turk  new  conquest  makes ; the  Eastern 
Empire  falls ; 

And  smiting  boldly  at  the  gates  that  guard  Vienna’s 
walls, 

He  finds  at  last  a sudden  check  ; away  fiy  horse  and 
man, 

And  Sobieski  ends  the  work  that  Charles  Martel 
began. 

Out  breaks  the  Age  of  Chivalry.  ’T  is  Honor’s 
glittering  spark 

That  shines  the  brighter,  now  that  all  the  world  beside 
is  dark. 

’T  is  Love  and  Gallantry  that  rule.  With  Knight  and 
Lady  fair, 

With  tilt  at  Joust  and  Tournament,  what  stir  of  life  is 
there ! 

The  Warrior  keeps  a holiday,  and  he  would  fain 
rehearse, 

In  brilliant  show,  the  bloody  field,  its  triumph  and 
reverse. 

He  trains  and  decks  himself  for  strife,  as  for  a thing 
of  sport, 

And  wages  mimic  war  amidst  the  splendor  of  a court. 
23* 


270 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES . 


With  coat  of  mail  and  sword  and  lance,  with  helmet, 
mace,  and  shield, 

The  horseman  rides  from  land  to  land,  in  search  of 
every  field 

To  prove  his  prowess,  and  make  good,  by  force  of  arms, 
his  wTord, 

That  she  is  best,  for  whom  he  fights,  and  Queen  to  be 
adored. 

When  Beauty  gazes  on  the  throng,  what  need  of  other 
light  ? 

Love  throbs  in  many  a tender  heart,  and  Valor  spurs 
the  Knight ; 

The  banners  flaunt ; the  pennons  stream  ; it  is  a goodly 
show ; 

The  Herald  blows  his  trumpet  loud ; each  breath  is 
hushed  and  low; 

The  Champions  are  in  the  lists ; the  field  is  Cloth  of 
Gold  ; 

They  dash,  they  crash,  the  lance  is  broke,,  and  one  is 
hurled  and  rolled 

With  headlong  force  upon  the  ground ; and  he  who 
wins  the  prize 

Hath  more  than  Kingdoms  in  the  light  that  shines 
from  Woman’s  eyes. 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


271 


Next,  Venice  rose  from  out  the  sea,  and  by  her  hun- 
dred isles 

The  wings  of  Traffic  spread  themselves  for  flights  of 
many  miles ; 

Until  they  grew  so  strong  and  bold,  that  from  the 
shores  of  Spain, 

They  ventured  forth  upon  the  deep  and  crossed  the 
Atlantic  Main, 

To  find  New  Worlds,  and  round  the  globe,  and  make 
the  map  complete, 

And  bring  the  wealth  of  continents  in  tribute  to  the 
feet 

Of  Spanish  pride  and  indolence.  Then  Holland  built, 
and  drew 

Her  wall  of  dikes  to  fence  the  land,  and  quickly  rose 
and  grew 

To  rank  and  power,  by  Indian  spice  and  trophy  of  the 
Seas  ; 

Till  Wealth  and  Time  brought  on  again  the  fatal  old 
disease 

That  hurts  the  nations.  England,  last,  began  to  lead 
and  rise, 

And  send  her  ships  to  all  the  world,  and  fight  and  , 
colonize ; 


272 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


Until,  beside  the  banks  of  Thames,  the  seat  of  power 
to-day 

Is  fixed,  that  has  the  strongest  hold  and  farthest-reaching 
sway. 

But  shall  that  centre  be  unmoved,  or  shall  the  Ages 
draw 

The  Mastery  from  London’s  life,  as  by  the  Historic  Law 

Of  change  in  all  that  went  before  ? May  not  the  wise 
foresee 

The  limit  Nature  puts  upon  the  power  and  high  degree 

Of  British  Might,  that  nears  each  day  the  inevitable 
goal  ? 

The  strength  of  England  rests  upon  her  wasting  beds 
of  coal. 

These  gone,  she  steps  aside  and  quits  the  chief  and 
foremost  place; 

And  then  another  Nation  comes  to  lead  the  onward 
race 

Of  swift  events  that  now  transpire  by  telegraph  and 
steam, 

And  rival  in  their  rapid  change  the  old  Arabian  dream 

Of  talisman  and  magic  power.  Beside  the  Hudson 
stands 

A city  that  one  day  shall  be  the  foremost  in  the  Lands. 


SONG  OF  THE  CENTURIES. 


273 


And  where  the  Mississippi  builds  its  delta  in  the  sea, 

And  the  Columbia  pours  its  flood,  a nation  there  shall 
be, 

Whose  rank  shall  hold  the  highest  place,  whose  influence 
stretch  most  wide. 

Heaven  grant  that  when  that  day  shall  come,  no  lust 
of  power  or  pride 

May  make  us  strong  to  do  the  wrong;  but  may  we  hold 
our  trust 

Of  God,  and  lead  the  nations  forth  till  we,  too,  pass  to 
dust. 

S 


274 


THE  PACHA  OF  THREE  TAILS. 


THE  PACHA  OF  THREE  TAILS. 


TTTHEN  the  mighty  Pacha  rides  by, 

* * With  his  three-tailed  badge  of  station, 
?T  is  an  emblem,  I take  it,  to  signify 
That  he  and  his  drowsy  Nation, 

In  the  March  of  Man,  do  occupy 
The  fag-end  of  Civilization. 


GO,  HAPPY  APT  1ST, 


275 


GO,  HAPPY  ARTIST. 


O,  happy  Artist,  rave  your  fill  about  the  Picturesque, 
^ The  Grecian,  Roman,  Gothic  styles,  Chinese  and 
Arabesque, 

Cathedrals,  castles  on  the  Rhine,  pagodas,  ruins, 
towers, 

Canals  of  Venice,  palaces,  rocks,  water,  trees,  and 
flowers. 

Be  mine  the  lot  that  holds  a Block  on  some  substantial 
street, 

Where  business  brings  the  highest  rents,  and  throngs 
of  merchants  meet ; 

Give  me  the  solid  Quarter-Days  of  my  Estate  called 
Real, 

And  you  may  draw  the  net  proceeds  of  your  Estate 

Ideal. 


276 


ALTHOUGH  NO  ACT. 


ALTHOUGH  NO  ACT. 
LTHOUGH  no  act  of  yours  be  strong 


To  grace  or  blot  the  historic  page, 
Although  no  word  of  deathless  song 
May  pass  your  name  from  age  to  age ; 

• Yet  plant  a flower  or  pluck  a weed 

Beside  Life’s  way,  and  who  shall  tell 
What  growth  may  follow  from  the  seed 
Of  simple,  silent  Doing  Well? 


PA  TIE NCE. 


277 


PATIENCE. 

T ET  Science  fail  to  count  the  lapse  of  Time 

While  Mist  of  Fire  condensed  to  ring  and  sphere, 
The  yearless  epochs,  ere  the  march  sublime 
Of  suns  and  planets  made  the  Days  appear 
And  the  swift  Seasons.  Let  her  fail  to  tell 
How  long  it  went  to  floor  the  mighty  sea, 

To  lift  the  mountains,  and  to  harden  well 
The  ribs  of  rock,  and  store  the  leaf  and  tree 
Beneath  the  hills.  Such  failure  teaches  me 
God’s  marvellous  Patience.  What  a breath  might  bring 
Upon  the  instant  forth,  how  slowly  He 
Proceeds  to  fashion ! He  awaits  the  thing 
That  myriad  ages  hence  shall  come  to  be 
By  His  exhaustless  power,  nor  hastes  to  show 
The  End  of  All.  Henceforward  let  me  grow 
Serenely  patient,  waiting  God’s  own  way 
And  rate  of  motion.  Wisest  this  and  best, 

Neither  to  pause,  nor  fret  at  long  delay, 

But  to  the  pulsing  of  the  Almighty’s  breast 
Commit  myself,  and  work  and  wait  and  rest. 

’ 24 


278  VAIN  IS  THE  GLORY . 


VAIN  IS  THE  GLORY. 

TT~ AIN  is  the  glory  of  our  best  estate ; 

* Men,  nations,  empires  waste  and  pass  away. 

To  each,  to  all  there  draweth  on  the^date 
That  marks  swift  overthrow  or  slow  decay. 

Awhile  the  ruins  stand  to  mock  our  pride, 

The  inscription  fades  from  out  the  wasting  stone, 
And  £mpty  tombs,  by  hill  and  mountain-side, 

Are  the  last  trace  of  builders.  Years  make  known 
How  all  the  Earth  is  washed  by  Lethe’s  wave, 
Creeping  at  first,  then  cresting  to  a flood, 

So  that  there  stands  no  work  or  name  or  grave 
To  show  the  spot  where  Strength  and  Beauty  stood. 
Whatever  lives  and  breathes  this  mortal  breath 
Doth  only  move  and  grow  toward  dust  and  death. 


COMFORT . 


.279 


COMFORT. 


IVT OT  from  the  waste  and  general  wreck  of  Time, 
' By  which,  the  mightiest  go  down  to  dust ; 

Not  from  the  seeds  that  flourish  in  the  clime 
Where  Death  is  richest  in  his  mould  and  must, 
Do  I gain  Comfort.  W herefore  all  this  change  ? 

Birth,  Growth,  Decay,  Oblivion,  and  the  round 
Of  ceaseless  Repetition  ? Wherefore  range 
And  whirl  the  planets  in  the  blue  profound, 
Bringing  the  Seasons  and  the  Months  and  Days  ? 

Time  answers  not,  nor  does  the  unclouded  sun 
Throw  light  to  solve  it.  But  beyond  the  maze 
Of  starry  dance,  and  where  the  Years  are  done, 
Thence  comes  a gleam  of  comfort,  as  I look 
Down  the  far  vista  of  the  Holy  Book. 


280 


SONG  OF  THE  SUNBEAM. 


SONG  OF  THE  SUNBEAM. 

"jTTIlOM  many  a million  of  miles  away, 

I come,  and  the  flying  Night  is  gone; 

In  the  East  I open  the  gates  of  Day, 

And  waken  the  rosy-fingered  Dawn. 

I glow  in  the  tip  of  the  April-buds, 

I unfurl  the  leaf  and  fashion  the  flower; 

I hang  my  banner  of  green  in  the  woods, 
And  my  scarf  of  light  by  the  garden-bower. 

In  the  cataract’s  spray  I bathe  and  flash, 

I break  into  color  above  the  storm, 

And  the  sky  is  bright  with  the  rainbow-sash 
That  I wear,  in  the  cloud,  about  my  form. 

I glint  on  the  side  of  the  snowy  scarp, 

And  I stir  the  glacier’s  sluggish  flow; 

I show  the  mountain-peak  bald  and  sharp, 
And  I fill  the  vale  with  a golden  glow. 


SONG  OF  THE  SUNBEAM. 


281 


I tarry  above  the  seeds  and  the  roots 

Till  the  germ  grows  warm,  and  a sudden  thrill 

Shatters  the  husk,  and  the  tendril  shoots, 

And  the  flower  that  thirsts  for  me  drinks  its  fill. 

With  many  a streak,  the  tulip  I stain, 

I spot  the  pansy  wherever  I list; 

I tinge  the  apple,  I brown  the  grain, 

And  I veil  the  grape  in  a purple  mist. 

I gaze  in  the  depths  of  the  tranquil  lake, 

I quiver  and  glimmer  by  ripple  and  wave ; 

I whiten  the  foam  where  the  breakers  break, 

And  smile  when  the  storm  hath  ^ceased  to  rave. 

I blaze  in  the  gem  from  the  darkling  mine, 

Till  the  diamond  is  flame  and  the  oj)al  a spark ; 

In  the  clouds  of  the  Evening  I linger  and  shine, 
Till  the  West  is  aglow  as  I curtain  the  dark. 

The  mists  of  the  Morning  I fringe  with  fire, 

I kindle  a warmth  in  the  drops  of  dew ; 

I gleam  from  the  top  of  village-spire, 

And  the  Cross  shines  clear  from  the  depths  of  blue. 

24* 


282 


SONG  OF  THE  SUNBEAM. 


I creep  where  the  shadows  fall  on  the  green; 

By  the  dial  I fashion,  the  hours  are  told ; 

Where  the  branches  are  woven  I slip  between, 

And  I checker  the  sward  with  bars  of  gold. 

I slant  o’er  the  wastes  of  Polar  snow, 

In  the  Tropics  I make  my  splendor  known ; 

As  I slope  on  the  Earth,  and  come  and  go, 

I chase  the  Seasons  from  zone  to  zone. 

Swift  fly  the  Hours,  the  Days,  the  Y ears, 

I speed  their  wings,  I measure  their  flight ; 

Round  the  Past,  that  I quit,  with  its  dust  and  tears, 

I fling  a halo  of  tenderest  light. 

By  wilderness,  desert,  and  river,  and  town, 

Over  sand,  over  sea,  field,  forest,  and  lawn, 

Where  mountain  uprises  and  torrent  leaps  down, 
Where  wing  hath  not  soared  and  foot  never  hath  gone, 

I wander  unwearied,  I brighten  each  spot, 

Be  it  ruin  or  temple  or  tower  or  grave; 

I enter  alike  the  palace  and  cot, 

And  quicken  the  pulse  of  the  king  and  the  slave. 


SONG  OF  THE  SUNBEAM. 


283 


I nestle  and  hide  in  the  tresses  of  hair, 

I lurk  in  the  dimple  on  Beauty’s  cheek, 

And  O,  from  the  lips  that  are  rosy  and  rare, 

# i 

I steal  what  the  Lover  in  vain  may  seek. 

I pause  but  a moment,  my  duty  is  done; 

Transformed  into  Life,  I perish  as  Light; 

Swift  follow  fresh  waves,  and  the  throb  of  the  sun 
Renews  me  forever,  and  chases  the  Night. 


284 


SHAKESPEARE. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

9FT1  WAS  in  the  happiest  season  of  the.  year, 

When  opening  buds  showed  May-day  to  be  near, 
And  all  was  hope  and  promise,  and  the  Spring, 
Breathing  toward  Summer,  wakened  every  thing 
To  life  and  song,  and  over  hill  and  dale 
Came  the  first  warblings  of  the  nightingale, 

In  merry  England,  centuries  ago, 

A child  was  born,  by  Avon’s  tranquil  flow, 

WThose  voice  hath  taken  earth  with  more  delight 
Than  nightingale  the  breathless  hush  of  night. 

What  heavenly  sounds  had  birth,  and  then  and  there 
Shook  with  their  pulses  all  th’  enraptured  air; 

And  as  each  gust  and  cadence  rose  and  fell, 

With  rippling  stir  or  billowy  dash  and  swell, 

That  which  before  was  dumb  had  found  a voice. 
Astonished  Silence  heard  and  did  rejoice 
To  be  so  troubled,  and  to  yield  a place 
To  the  sweet  breath  and  ever-varying  grace 


SHAKESPEARE. 


285 


Of  song  and  harmony.-  What  once  was  mute 
Passed  into  music  softer  than  the  lute, 

Louder  than  clarion,  full  as  is  the  roar 

Of  storm  in  forest,  or  as  on  the  shore 

The  waves  make  moaning,  or  as  faint  and  small 

As  leafy  murmur  or  the  muffled  fall 

Of  rain  on  roses ; and  the  listening  ear 

Was  ravished  by  the  music  sweet  and  clear. 

Song  grew  to  be  enchantment,  and  the  stroke 
Of  magic  wand  was  rivalled.  Man  awoke 
To  what  was  possible  in  human  speech, 

To  the  charm  of  utterance  within  the  reach 
Of  finite  voice,  to  the  wondrous  instrument 
Thought  finds  in  language  interfused  and  blent 
With  its  own  essence. 

Shakespeare's  searching  ken 
Glanced  through  the  realms  of  nature  and  of  men, 
And  caught  and  fixed,  with  such  far  reach  of  power, 
The  form  and  spirit  of  the  place  and  hour, 

That  in  the  smallest  deed  and  phrase  appears 
Something  which  goes  beyond  the  days  and  years, 
Something  eternal,  changeless  as  the  laws 
Which  govern  change  and  bind  effect  to  cause. 


286 


SHAKESPEARE. 


A meaning  we  may  find  that  far  transcends 
The  narrow  circle  where  our  knowledge  ends, 

And  grows  with  our  enlargement,  and  still  leaves 
Promise  of  harvest  where  the  heaviest  sheaves 
Were  gathered  in.  His  wisdom  walks  abreast 
With  man’s  experience.  State  of  worst  and  best 
He  touches,  and  so  marks  that  we  make  out 
The  bounds  which  hedge  our  nature  round  about 
And  end  achievement.  ’Neath  the  motley  wear, 
Beats  human  heart;  a weary  load  of  care 
Burdens  the  crown.  He  has  the  skill  to  unlock 
Close-hidden  secrets.  Churchly  cowl  and  frock 
Become  translucent  veils  before  his  gaze. 

Vain  are  all  cloaks  and  ceremonious  ways 
To  glance  that  reads  and  skill  that  can  disclose 
Proteus  beneath  all  masks. 

The  picture  shows 
None  the  less  perfect  that  his  brush  doth  paint 
Philosopher  and  fool,  villain  and  saint. 

Done  to  the  life,  each  lineament  is  there ; 

The  canvas  stirs,  the  many-sounding  air 
Answers  to  parted  lips.  Each  holds  discourse 
In  his  own  dialect.  The  subtle  force 


SHAKESFEA.RE. 


287 


Of  blood,  rank,  office,  education,  age, 

Sex,  circumstance,  whatever  powers  engage, 
Collide,  and  clash  to  shape  to  complex  play, 
Tragic  or  comic,  which  from  day  to  day 
Transacts  itself  with  laughter  or  with  tears, 
Wherever  man  in  the  wide  world  appears;  — 
All  these  take  part  and  act  at  his  behest. 

The  slightest  waves  that  stir  the  human  breast, 
The  fiercest  storms,  the  most  convulsive  shocks 
When  fatal  passion  breaks  upon  the  rocks 
Which  nature  hath  appointed,  find  their  place 
In  Shakespeare,  as  when  ocean’s  changeful  face 
Mirrors  the  heavens,  or  ruffles  to  the.  wind, 

Or  thunders  on  the  breakers. 

Every  mind 

May  match  its  varying  humor ; every  grade 
And  style  of  man,  profession,  school,  and  trade 
May  hear  its  inmost  secret  squarely  told. 

The  lover  listens  to  the  story  old ; 

The  merry  clown  disports  himself  at  ease ; 

The  dainty  damsel  finds  the  word  to  please ; 
Statesmen  take  counsel  for  the  affairs  of  state, 
And  courtiers  learn  the  perils  that  await 


288 


SHAKESPEARE. 


On  fickle  fortune.  Mines  of  richest  ore 
Scholars  may  work  for  aye,  and  gather  more 
And  more  of  precious  treasure.  Every  test 
Of  time,  fire,  crucible,  but  shows  the  best 
And  most  enduring  worth ; and  none  may  say 
That  he  has  carried  all  the  wealth  away, 

Which  runs  in  hidden  veins  down  to  the  heart 
Of  the  ribb’d  Earth,  or  grain-like  lies  apart 
Where  fairies  dance  upon  the  sands  of  gold 
And  all  the  waves  make  music.  Years  have  rolled 
Tributes  of  wisdom  underneath  the  flood. 

The  form  and  fashion  of  the  time,  that  stood 
Its  season,  soon  or  late  hath  ceased  to  rule  ; 

But  Shakespeare  sends  the  world  itself  to  school, 
And  holds  us  students  of  his  wondrous  page 
When  Manhood’s  prime  hath  turned  to  hoary  age. 

For  he  knows  all,  how  clear,  how  passing  well ! 
His  the  quick  eye  to  see,  the  tongue  to  tell, 

The  fine  imagination  that  can  gain 

The  point  of  vision,  sought  for  else  in  vain, 

Whence  all  is  viewed  in  order  and  appears 
As  from  the  sun  the  whirling  march  of  spheres. 

In  him  is  largest  sympathy  to  feel 
Whatever  stirs,  shakes,  shatters ; wo  and  weal, 


SffA KESPEARE . 


289 


Ambition,  love,  bate,  jealousy,  deceit, 

The  wreck  of  reason  partial  or  complete, 

Crime  callous  grown,  suspicion’s  dismal  lair, 

The  nascent  sin,  the  anguish  of  despair, 

Are  so  portrayed  that  every  phrase  doth  catch 
The  form  and  color  and  the  word  to  match 
With  inmost  thought  and  feeling.  There  wTe  find 
The  secret  ties  that  interlace  and  bind 
Body  with  soul,  and  how  the  state  of  each 
Acts  on  the  other.  He  hath  skill  to  reach, 

By  gait  and  gesture,  look  and  tone,  below 
The  outer  surface,  and  to  mark  and  show 
The  signs  and  badges  of  the  world  that  lies 
Deepest  within  and  shut  from  other  eyes. 

Conduct  reveals  the  hidden  character, 

We  catch  emotion  in  its  earliest  stir, 

In  passive  drift,  in  action  strong  and  clear, 

Or  in  vague  aim ; we  seem,  at  times,  to  hear 
The  soul  at  high  debate  when  balancing 
This  thought  with  that,  and  poising  on  the  wing, 
Uncertain  toward  what  end  shall  be  its  flight, 
Goodness  or  ill,  the  darkness  or  the  light. 

The  line  is  his,  and  plummet  that  can  sound 
The  swiftest  floods  and  gulfs  the  most  profound  ; 

25  T 


290 


SHAKESPEARE. 


His  too  the  measure  that  can  reach  the  top 
Where  granite-depths  in  mountain-peaks  out-crop, 
And  where  the  stream  of  molten  lava  shows 
The  hidden  fires  on  which  the  rocks  repose. 

He  knows  our  nature  in  its  subtlest  part, 

The  dreaming  head,  the  throb  of  troubled  heart, 
The  loftiest  aspirations,  and  the  play 
Of  grosser  promptings  from  the  baser  clay 
Whereof  we  are  compounded.  Not  a root 
Delves  in  the  darkness,  not  a bud  doth  shoot 
Forth  from  its  sheathing  on  the  topmost  bough, 
But  he  hath  marked  its  course  and  tells  us  how 
Its  form  and  function  serve  the  general  good, 
Unfold  to  fruit  or  twist  to  knotted  wood, 

Or  stir  the  sap  and  lift  the  leafy  crown 
Fairer  and  fuller.  As  the  roots  strike  down 
Toward  pits  of  horror  and  the  nether  fire, 

They  bear  the  branches  broader  still  and  higher, 
And  sunshine  ripens,  into  flower  and  fruit, 

A beauty  and  a use  that  have  their  root 
In  strange  contortions  and  a twining  might, 

That  knit  the  bloom  to  sunken  realms  of  night. 

All  grades  and  shades  of  character  he  draws, 
Discerns  its  growth,  sets  clearly  forth  its  laws, 


SHAKESPEARE. 


291 


The  far  impulses  and  the  secret  springs 
Whence  conduct  flows.  Unto  the  depth  of  things 
And  the  steep  height  he  doth  descend  and  rise; 
Knows  the  world’s  centre,  reads  the  starry  skies ; 
Shows  accident,  caprice,  fortune,  and  fate, 

The  play  of  each,  the  individual  trait 
Grafted  and  growing  on  the  common  stock 
Of  human  nature.  Not  a lumpish  block 
Or  figure  of  convention  takes  its  place 
Upon  the  stage,  but  men  fn  whom  we  trace 
The  personal  life  down  to  the  smallest  word. 

Each  action  rises,  every  pulse  is  stirred 
From  real  heart-throb ; an  organic  whole, 

Each  moves  not  as  a puppet  but  a soul. 

Behold  the  gallery  which  the  finest  skill 

Had  time  and  industry  enough  to  fill 

With  pictures  that  no  years  shall  cause  to  fade. 

See  every  color,  every  light  and  shade, 

The  smile,  the  laugh,  bright  looks,  and  merry  quips, 
Tears,  groans,  knit  brows,  sunk  cheeks,  and  ashen  lips, 
A thousand  portraits,  all  so  bravely  done 
That  it  were  vain  to  hope  for  any  one 
To  paint  in  language  with  a rarer  skill ; 

Who  hopes  or  wishes  more,  reads  Shakespeare  ill. 


292 


SHA  KESPEARE. 


Under  the  guidance  of  his  finer  sense, 

We  overpass  the  bound  of  hedge  and  fence 
Fashioned  of  matter,  and  we  enter  where 
The  spirit  moves  within  a realm  as  rare 
As  is  its  essence,  and  we  there  explore 
A world  whereof  we  vaguely  dreamed  before. 

The  tracts  of  fantasy  and  wild  desire, 

Of  drowsy  revery,  of  storm  and  fire, 

Of  most  impalpable  and  airy  things 
Finer  than  gossamer  or  the  filmiest  wings 
That  must  be  heard,  not  seen,  the  thinnest  shapes 
That  form  and  vanish ; none  of  these  escapes 
A touch  and  handling  that  reports  for  aye 
What  melts  to  air  or  passeth  swift  away 
As  it  was  born.  Life,  motion,  passion,  thought, 
Are  present  with  us.  Their  effects  are  wrought 
Plainly  before  us,  and  we  read  the  cause, 

In  what  it  fashions  by  unvarying  laws. 

We  see  the  soil  in  which  the  seed  is  sown, 

Study  the  germ,  the  bud,  the  flower  full-blown, 
Behold  the  perils  of  the  early  Spring, 

How  frost  may  blight,  the  canker-worm  may  bring 
Kuin  for  beauty,  how  the  mildew  may 
Undo  the  bloom  of  many  a happy  day, 


SHAKESPEARE. 


293 


And  how  instead  of  ripeness  there  may  fall 
Disease  and  death  to  make  an  end  of  all. 

The  dainty  blossom  scarcely  doth  unlace 
Its  beauty  to  the  air  and  show  its  grace 
Of  form  and  color,  ere  its  sweetness  draws 
The  spoiler  to  it,  and  fierce  ravage  gnaws 
The  honeyed  texture.  Read  we,  in  the  flower, 
What  happens  elsewhere  every  day  and  hour, 
And  mars  a growth  whose  precious  beauty  none 
With  tearless  eyes  may  gaze  on,  all  undone. 

We  learn  to  find  the  greater  in  the  less, 

Deeds  in  their  germs,  the  tendencies  that  press 
And  urge  us  onward,  latent  powers  that  wait 
And  mass  themselves  until  there  comes  the  date 
For  strain,  convulsion,  crisis,  and  the  play 
Of  such  Titanic  struggle  as  shall  sway 
The  walls  that  close  them  and  the  ribs  of  rock, 
And  break  their  prison  in  the  earthquake-shock. 

In  the  swift  syllables  of  many  a line, 

What  tracts  are  traversed,  what  recesses  shine 
Lit  by  the  splendor!  Never  fell  a ray 
Of  sunshine  into  cavern,  making  day, 

And  showing  sparkle  of  the  jewels  there, 

Tangle  of  sea-weed,  coral  branching  fair, 


294 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Or  else  the  slime  and  foulness,  with  a light 
Clearer  than  when  the  beam  serene  and  bright, 

Of  Shakespeare’s  wisdom,  strikes  athwart  the  deep 
Where  motives  lurk  and  passions  wake  or  sleep. 
Nay,  as  the  miner  with  his  pick  and  spade, 

Bearing  his  lamp,  the  darkness  doth  invade, 
Exploring  night  and  gathering  treasure  stored 
Where  mountains  rose  and  ocean’s  depths  were  floored  ; 
So  Shakespeare  digs  and  quarries  and  makes  search, 
And  bears  about  him  the  resplendent  torch 
Of  his  own  genius,  and  enriches  man 
With  knowledge  hidden,  bosomed  in  the  plan 
•And  deep  foundation  the  Creator  laid 
When  Earth  was  formed,  and  man  himself  was  made. 
Out  of  the  darkness,  jewels  rich  and  rare 
Come  forth  to  shine  and  make  the  day  more  fair, 
Shatter  the  sunbeam,  sphere  themselves  in  flame, 
Show  fiercer  joy  in  light  because  they  came 
From  Stygian  gloom,  and  sparkle  far  and  blaze 
On  Beauty’s  front,  and  set  the  world  agaze. 

Of  all  degrees  of  man  from  king  to  clown, 

His  music  runs  the  diapason  down, 

In  chords  of  thunder,  softly-warbling  tones, 
Triumphal  shouts,  funereal  wails  and  moans, 


SHAKESPEARE. 


295 


Sighs,  sobs,  and  laughter,  and  the  grief  that  shows 
Most  eloquent  when  anguish  overthrows 
All  power  of  utterance,  and  Silence  fills 
The  measure  that  would  speak  our  outmost  ills : 
And  all  so  sweet,  so  full,  and  modulated  so, 

That  naught  is  left  to  wish  for  as  we  go 
Borne  on  the  breath  of  harmony  along, 

And  charmed  by  Shakespeare’s  ever-changing  song; 
Whose  very  freedom,  playful  grace,  caprice, 

Loud  burst,  and  sudden  stop,  and  careless  ease 
Show  nature’s  method,  and  obey  it  still 
In  rise  and  fall,  full  gust  and  faintest  trill. 

Clear,  sweet,  distinct  is  every  several  tone, 

Yet  not  unmatched,  nor  moving  on  alone, 

But  blent  to  harmony.  All  sounds  that  float 
From  sea-beach,  forest,  wTave,  or  warbling  throat, 
The  crash  of  thunder  and  the  murmuring 
Of  pebbly  brooks,  the  buzz  of  insect’s  wing, 

The  bay  of  hounds,  loud  shouts,  the  happy  noise 
Of  playful  leisure,  Echo’s  babbling  voice, 

With  discord  used  so  skilfully  that  all 
Grows  richer  by  the  contrast,  and  doth  fall 
To  a more  perfect  silence ; these  we  find, 

And  sounds  that  pass  the  sense,  and  which  the  mind 


296 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Alone  may  catch,  too  fine  for  grosser  ears, 

The  song  of  Ariel,  music  of  the  spheres, 

The  breath  of  Fairies  that  is  softer  blown 
Than  the  gnat’s  hum  or  beetle’s  drowsy  drone; 

Such  sounds  as  these  are  caught  and  fixed  in  speech, 
Mingled,  prolonged,  and  brought  within  our  reach, 
Made  common  portion  of  us  all  to  hear, 

Nor  fly  with  seasons,  but  are  always  near. 

Each  form  and  influence  of  the  outward  world, 
Sky,  star,  and  cloud,  crag,  and  the  lightning  hurled 
Out  of  the  tempest,  breath  of  south- wind  blown 
From  bank  of  violets;  all  of  these  are  knowTn, 

Felt,  loved,  and  present  in  their  proper  place. 
Landscapes  are  sketched  wherein  the  wild-flower’s  face 
Shines  on  the  beauty  that  it  makes  thrice  fair. 
Castle  with  battlement,  cliff  high  in  air, 

Wood,  wilderness,  lawn,  garden,  field  appear ; 

The  dawn  and  dew,  all  changes  of  the  year, 

Day  and  the  night,  and  hours  that  fly  or  lag 
As  pleasures  wing  them  or  as  sorrows  drag ; 

These  do  their  service,  shift  the  scenes  and  give 
Environment  to  action,  and  they  live 
By  their  suggestive  might  in  heart  and  brain, 
Nourish  our  life,  bring  happiness  or  pain 


SHAKESPEARE. 


297 


Unto  the  mood  in  which  we  chance  to  be. 

The  world  doth  quicken  us,  and  straightway  we 
Inspire  our  breath  in  nature.  By -a  stroke 
Of  Shakespeare’s  magic  wand  the  charm  is  broke 
That  holds  the  Earth  in  silence.  From  her  lips 
He  takes  the  seal.  No  longer  dim  eclipse 
Shadows  her  visage.  She  makes  bold  to  speak, 
Hath  touch  of  joy  and  grief;  flushes  her  cheek. 

Or  pales  its  color  as  the  varying  train 
Of  swift  emotions  follow  ; bliss  and  pain 
Tremble  and  throb  and  fall  away  and  rise ; 

Tree,  rock,  cloud,  sunshine,  feel  and  sympathize 
With  all  we  do  or  suffer.  We  infuse 
The  tint  of  our  own  being  in  the  hues 
Of  what  is  round  about  us.  Every  tone 
Sounds  in  accord  with  that  which  makes  its  moan 
Sadly  within  us,  or  which  shouts  and  breaks 
To  peals  of  laughter  when  the  heart  awakes 
To  joy  and  strength.  What  a full  harmony 
Swells  forth  and  modulates  from  key  to  key, 
Sweeps  all  the  scale,  pours  out  the  mighty  flood 
Now  in  the  major,  now  the  minor  mood, 

Uses  each  stop,  and  makes  our  mother-tongue 
Melodious  organ  sounding  far  among 


298 


SHAKESPEARE . 


The  lands  and  ages,  and  with  tone  that  thrills 
Nature  and  man,  thronged  cities  and  lone  hills. 

Let  Meditation  walk  the  wildwood  free, 

The  running  brooks  will  talk  philosophy 
In  Arden’s  forest.  How  the  moon  doth  shine 
When  Jessica  makes  all  the  heaven  divine 
Unto  Lorenzo!  How  the  envious  dawn 
For  happy  Romeo  comes  too  swiftly  on, 

And  Juliet  says  the  song  heard  in  the  dark 
Was  of  the  nightingale  and  not  the  lark! 

Macbeth,  with  soul  already  stained  by  guilt 
Before  the  deed,  would  clutch  the  phantom  hilt 
Of  murder’s  instrument,  and  starts  to  find 
That  he  beholds  a dagger  of  the  mind, 

And  on  the  blade  and  dudgeon  gouts  of  blood. 

And  she  who  stirred  ambition  to  its  flood, 

Nor  paused  at  any  form  of  crime  that  lay 
Athwart  her  path,  rests  not  by  night  or  day. 

Her  tortured  mind  no  couch  of  ease  may  hold. 
With  eyes  wide  open,  though  the  sight  doth  fold 
Itself  in  slumber,  ghostlike,  how  she  walks, 

And  rubs  her  hands,  and  muttering  strangely,  talks! 
In  balm  and  Lethe  she  no  more  may  steep 
Her  wearied  sense,  and  babbling  in  her  sleep, 


SHAKESPEARE. 


299 


Must  tell  her  fearful  secret  to  the  night. 

See  jealousy  arise  and  reach  its  height, 

When  by  his  phrase  Iago’s  craft  distils 
Slow  poison  in  Othello’s  ear,  and  fills 
His  mind  with  proof  of  Desdemona’s  shame 
By  the  lost  hankerchief.  Ophelia’s  name 
Calls  up  what  tears  of  pity  ! Round  the  head 
Sweet  flowers  are  bound,  whence  reason’s  light  has  fled. 
With  her  “ pansies,  that ’s  for  thoughts,”  and  “rue  for 
you,” 

And  then  “ here ’s  some  for  me,”  what  can  we  do 
But  break  to  tears,  while  snatches  of  old  tunes 
Are  the  swan’s  music,  as  her  soul  communes 
With  a lost  world  and  floats  away  to  death. 

What  words  of  wisdom  troubled  Hamlet  saith, 
Mingled  with  folly  feigned,  as  if  he  reels 
On  the  brink  of  madness : all  too  sharp  he  feels 
The  countless  ills  to  which  our  flesh  is  heir. 

When  the  clown’s  spade  digs  in  the  church-yard, 
where 

The  soil  too  full  with  wrecks  of  death  is  sown, 

And  to  the  light  the  empty  skulls  are  thrown, 
What  wit  is  found,  so  keen  to  moralize 
On  man’s  estate  and  all  that  lives  and  dies? 


300 


SHAKESPEARE . 


Out  on  the  heath,  behold  the  pitiless  storm 
Break  in  its  fury  on  the  haggard  form 
Of  outraged  Lear,  the  tempest  of  whose  mind 
Rages  more  fiercely  than  the  howling  wind 
And  the  loud  thunder.  From  each  page  we  learn 
Meaning  in  hedge  and  highway,  and  discern 
Trim  walk  of  order,  wilderness  of  sweet, 

In  place,  appointment,  office,  all  complete. 

What  figures  throng  and  move  across  the  stage, 
Greeks,  Romans,  Britons,  men  of  every  age, 

Blood,  and  complexion;  men  of  various  climes; 
Christian  and  Moor  and  Jew.  Far-distant  times 
And  lands  are  put  to  tribute.  Here  is  shown 
What  most  is  curious,  worthy  to  be  known, 

Mighty  and  glorious ; names  of  power  and  state, 
Whose  will  and  voice  were  as  the  word  of  Fate, 
Strong  to  resolve,  remorseless  still  to  do, 

Achilles,  Hector,  Brutus,  Caesar  too, 

And  Antony,  and  She  with  nerve  to  grasp, 

In  fortune’s  bitter  hour,  the  deadly  asp. 

Long  lines  of  kings  in  grand  procession  move, 

Fired  by  ambition,  anger,  lust,  or  love. 

The  clang  of  arms  rings  out,  steeds  neigh  and  champ 
The  sounding  bit;  the  hurry  of  the  camp, 


SHAKESPEARE . 


301 


Uproar  of  battle,  and  the  din  and  rout 
Of  flying  foemen,  and  the  victor’s  shout, 

Wake  distant  echoes,  and  the  Past  revives, 

Fleshes  itself  again  and  stirs  and  lives. 

Now  in  the  palace  stand  we;  now  we  meet 
At  the  Boar’s  Head  Tavern;  now  the  open  street 
Receives  us  with  the  crowd;  we  haste  away 
To  wedding,  funeral;  now  are  grave,  now  gay; 
We  touch  the  extremes  that  nature  bids  us  reach, 
And  learn  the  lessons  found  alone  in  each. 

Now  talk  with  Death,  ^and  now  we  gayly  beat 
Time  to  the  happy  moments  with  our  feet, 

And  find  that  every  minute,  every  place 
Hath  act  to  suit  of  merriment  or  grace. 

Of  prison  and  of  mad-house  every  ward 
Disclosed  some  secret  piteous  or  abhorred 
To  Shakespeare’s  intuition.  Hear  the  laugh 
And  prate  of  folly.  View  the  photograph 
Of  sickness,  sorrow,  all  that  wrong  or  pain 
Stamp  on  the  brow  or  write  within  the  brain ; 
Open  the  volume,  find  on  every  leaf 
Some  verbal  sketch  as  life-like  as  ’t  is  brief. 

Read  there  the  signs  and  symptoms  of  disease: 
The  face  of  death  drawn  by  Hippocrates 
26 


302 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Is  not  more  faithful,  closer  to  the  fact 
Than  what  is  writ  of  FalstafFs  final  act. 

Nor  men  alone,  and  grosser  things  that  lie 
Apparent  only  to  the  outward  eye, 

But  all  that  feigning  Fancy  can  create, 

Illusions  of  Disease,  and  shapes  that  wait 
To  torture  Guilt,  fairies  and  ghosts  appear, 
Monsters  and  airy  forms  distinct  and  clear 
As  if  his  chisel  knew  to  cut  in  mist 
As  well  as  marble.  Nothing  can  resist, 

That  it  shall  not  take  shape  and  act  its  part. 
Substantial  figures,  phantom  shades  that  start 
From  brains  of  madmen,  all  are  so  expressed 
That  what  we  gaze  on  last  seems  fashioned  best, 
True  to  the  life,  whether  the  pulses  beat 
With  ruddy  health  or  fever's  fiery  heat. 

Spirits  of  air  are  summoned  by  his  pen ; 

Puck,  Ariel,  Oberon  intermix  with  men, 

And  in  the  woods,  o’er-canopied  with  green, 
Titania  holds  her  revels  as  a queen. 

What  stands  portrayed  within  how  small  a space 
The  slightest  touch  hath  left  behind  a trace 
Which  Time  may  not  obliterate.  Can  a breath 
Of  shaken  air  outlive  the  lull  of  death, 


SHAKESPEARE. 


303 


And  stir  the  ages?  Can  a transient  glance 
Pierce  through  and  through,  and  fathom  in  advance 
The  riddle  of  the  Future?  Can  a touch, 

Hint,  or  suggestion,  waken  musings  such 

As  sleep  may  never  drowse?  What  magic  lies 

In  rod  or  crucible,  that  can  surprise 

With  half  such  wonder  as  when  Shakespeare  lays 

Life’s  mystery  bare,  and  thrids  the  tangled  maze 

Where  Conscience  wars  with  Passion,  and  where  Doubt 

Palsies  the  Will,  or  Madness  dashes  out 

The  form  and  beauty  of  the  earth,  and  shows 

Its  spectral  world  of  hideous  shapes  and  woes. 

Thus  to  the  reach  and  compass  of  our  thought, 
What  far-off  tracts  and  shadowy  realms  are  brought ! 
The  past  is  present  and  the  distant  near, 

Our  life  enlarged  and  earth  a greater  sphere, 
Because  no  more  the  bounds  of  time  and  space 
Do  strictly  prison  us,  but  we  embrace 
The  vast  and  vague,  outstretching  wide  and  far ; 
And  more  than  what  we  have  been,  or  we  are, 

Is  what  we  may  be,  or  shall  yet  become. 

The  Possible  thus  rounds  the  little  sum 
Stored  by  the  Actual,  and  achievement  grows 
To  larger  measure  with  the  hope  that  flows 


304 


SHAKESPEARE. 


From  fount  perennial,  and  that  waters  still 
Broad  plain,  low  valley,  slope  of  mount  and  hill, 
Awakes  the  desert  into  bloom  of  sward 
And  makes  the  wild  a Garden  of  the  Lord. 

Nature’s  spontaneous  play,  the  power  of  Art 
To  shape  and  train,  the  not  less  wondrous  part 
Of  climate,  season,  soil,  whatever  goes 
To  hold  and  feed  the  hidden  germ  that  grows' 
Rooted  within;  the  silent,  subtle  force 
Of  Habit,  by  whose  law  the  very  course 
And  current  of  our  life  are  changed  at  last; 
Passion’s  light  breath  or  fierce  tornado-blast 
That  carries  sudden  havoc  in  its  path ; 

The  growth  of  crime,  until  its  being  hath 
From  first  inception  passed  to  final  act ; 

All  powers  that  are  of  heaven  and  earth  compact, 
Celestial  admonition,  pure  desire, 

The  voice  of  conscience,  earthly  lust  and  fire, 
Whatever  sheds  its  skyey  influence  round, 

Or  shakes  with  strain  and  shock  the  solid  ground ; — • 
These  all  in  Shakespeare  have  their  sway  assigned. 
Upon  the  stage  the  Drama  of  Mankind 
Is  set  before  us,  and  so  truly  versed 
That  history  there  is  summed  up  and  rehearsed. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


305 


We  read  the  searching  wisdom  that  detects, 

Latent  in  causes,  their  remote  effects ; 

That  shows  conditions,  elemental  states, 
Transforming  movements,  varying  drifts  and  rates, 
And  tells  the  present  what  shall  yet  befall, 

And,  by  a few  men,  represents  us  all. 

For  his  was  insight  penetrant  to  read 
Thought,  word,  and  action  in  their  very  seed, 
Birth,  and  awaking,  and  to  trace  the  growth 
Of  state  from  state;  and  interlinking  both 
Present  and  past  with  future,  view  as  one 
The  unvarying  process  which  the  ages  run. 

The  gift  was  his  to  see  and  then  to  tell 
What,  looking  inward,  each  discovereth  well, 

And  yet  to  make  the  plain  disclosure  seem 
A part  of  nature.  Fancy’s  airiest  dream, 

Life’s  hardest  fact  that  cuts  the  soul  as  flint, 

Dim  longing,  swift  desire,  suggestive  hint, 

Sweet  influence,  crushing  force,  whatever  brings 
Rich  gain  or  heavy  loss,  or  soothes,  or  stings, 
Poisoning  our  life,  rude  shock  and  restless  power 
That  stir  the  years  or  vanish  in  an  hour, 

Take  here  their  station,  act,  and  leave  a trace 
Which  time  and  ruin  shall  not  all  efface. 

26*  U 


306 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Vague  wish,  suggestion  faint,  and  purpose  strong, 
Pass  to  performance.  Then  there  comes  the  throng 
Of  strange  reactions,  comfort  full  and  sweet, 

Or  mere  disgust,  unrest  the  more  complete 
For  hope  thus  foiled,  or  else  the  fearful  force 
Of  conscience  ministering  to  keen  remorse. 

All  forms  of  good  and  ill  we  find  within, 

Head  what  we  are,  see  what  we  might  have  been, 
Discover  self  beneath  each  various  guise, 

And  learn  with  man,  as  man,  to  sympathize. 

No  pomp  of  royalty,  no  glittering  shows 
Can  cheat  his  piercing  vision  or  impose 
Their  brave  deceits.  King,  equally  with  clown, 

To  human  state  and  level  must  come  down, 

Or  be  exalted.  Not  on  lordly  halls 
So  sweet  a rest  and  benediction  falls 
As  on  the  cottage.  Vain  are  downy  beds 
To  pillow  sloth.  What  aching  hearts  and  heads 
Inhabit  hollow  splendor,  and  are  bowed 
By  cares  and  pains  unknown  to  all  the  crowd 
Whose  lives  are  simple.  Bliss  doth  fly  the  courts 
For  lightsome  ease,  brave  work,  or  May-day  sports, 
And  leaving  outward  shows  and  fictions,  asks 
To  quicken  hearts,  not  ceremonious  masks. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


307 


What  place  for  envy  in  the  soul  is  left, 

When  those  endowed  by  Fortune  are  bereft 
Of  other  wealth,  and  each  allotment  squares 
Some  loss  with  gain,  and  may  offset  its  cares 
With  secret  joys  and  compensations  sweet? 
Although  we  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  toil,  and  suffer  buffeting  and  wrong, 

Yet  labor  knits  the  thews  and  makes  us  strong, 
And  patience  and  forgiveness  lift  us  up 
From  lowliest  vale  to  loftiest  mountain-top. 

The  language  of  the  passions,  Shakespeare  knew : 
He  caught  their  impress  in  the  forms  he  drew. 

As  swift  emotions  rise  and  whirl  away, 

What  rhythmic  flow,  what  chasmal  leap  and  spray 
Fill  all  the  channel  of  his  changing  verse! 

Now  Love  low  murmurs  as  the  waves  make  course 
With  lingering  fondness;  now  the  rocky  shore 
Shakes  and  resounds  with  plunge  and  cataract-roar 
Of  Hate  and  Fury;  and  anon  the  tide 
Grows  to  a lake  outspreading  far  and  wide, 

Within  whose  depths  are  imaged  pictures  rare 
Of  earth  around  and  the  far  fields  of  air. 

From  wildest  fancy  to  profoundest  thought, 

The  forms  and  colors  of  the  mind  are  caught 


308 


SHAKESPEARE. 


And  fixed  forever.  Strength  and  skill  combine 
To  marshal  all  life’s  forces  into  line, 

Ploy  and  deploy  them,  hurl  them  swift  as  storm 
What  time  and  where  the  battle  waxes  warm; 

And  when  the  tumult  and  the  shock  are  done, 
Disband  them  all  for  pleasure,  and  to  run 
Whither  the  wish  may  lead.  Who  tells  the  length, 
The  breadth,  the  depth  of  that  creative  strength, 
Which,  whether  shaping  world  or  fashioning  flower, 
Leaves  clear  the  sense  of  vast  reserve  of  powTer 
Unused,  uncalled  for,  and  that  only  grows 
Fuller  and  richer  by  the  might  it  throws 
Into  achievement?  Genius  doth  its  part 
Fairest  and  best,  when  art,  concealing  art 
By  ease  and  grace,  turns  labor  into  play, 

When  let  and  hindrance  vanish  quite  away, 

When  failure  comes  to  be  a word  unknown, 

And  strength  reserved  makes  strongest  what  is  shown. 

What  equipoise  is  here,  what  store  of  force 
Unshaken,  unexhausted  by  the  course, 

Shock,  rush  and  whirl  of  passion.  He 
Stands  centred,  balanced  though  the  current  be 
Maddest  and  dizziest.  In  the  very  storm, 

When  all  is  changing  place  and  shifting  form, 


SHAKESPEARE, 


309 


He  stands  serenely,  nor  is  borne  away 
By  torrents  of  emotion  and  the  play 
Of  what  his  skill  was  able  to  evoke. 

No  blast  of  tempest,  no  swift  thunderstroke 
Exhausts  the  treasury  and  the  boundless  store 
Of  force  that  dwells  in  nature.  So,  no  more 
Of  limit  or  exhaustion  can  we  trace 
In  Shakespeare’s  world.  Disorder  there  has  place 
Strictly  assigned  it.  Fury  hath  its  laws, 

Madness  its  method,  sudden  gusts  and  flaws 
Have  paths  and  channels  and  a rhythmic  flow 
No  less  than  starry  motions  and  the  slow 
Procession  of  the  Ages.  Time  and  tide 
Bear  all  along.  Order  and  law  preside 
Above  the  storm  and  over  wreck  and  blight, 

And  limit  Chaos  and  tempestuous  Night. 

How  well  his  method  with  the  world  doth  match. 
We  see  a part,  a passing  glimpse  we  catch; 
Illusions  meet  us ; here  a strange  deceit 
O’ertakes  the  sense  and  practices  a cheat 
That  we  are  loath  to  part  with;  here  a hint 
Is  all  that  we  may  learn,  there  but  a tint 
Gleams  from  the  picture ; all  the  rest  is  hid ; 

Much  lies  in  plan  and  sketch,  or  we  are  bid 


310 


SHAKESPEARE. 


To  gaze  on  wreck;  here  germs  are  doomed  to  death 
Before  their  latent  force  has  felt  the  breath 
Of  growing  life;  vague  dreams,  disease,  unrest, 
Questions  and  longings,  all  that  sways  the  breast 
With  hope,  fear,  aspiration  and  despair, 

Are  touched  and  traced,  and  put  in  language  there. 
The  very  treatment  seems  to  intimate 
The  mystery  round  us.  We  are  led  to  wait 
Further  solution,  and  at  last  to  fall 
Toward  Wonder,  as  the  language  best  of  -all 
Whereby  to  express  what  lies  beyond  the  reach 
Of  fancy’s  wing,  nor  shapes  itself  to  speech. 

When  Genius  stoops  to  labor  and  doth  bow 
Its  strength  to  tasks,  then  we  discover  how 
The  matchless  gift  to  one  may  straight  become 
Perpetual  dower  to  all.  The  blind,  the  dumb, 

Gain  vision,  voiceful  utterance,  learn  to  see, 

Catch  strains  before  unheard  of  harmony, 

Quicken,  and  rise,  and  gather  might,  and  grow 
Beyond  themselves.  Strange  pulses  come  and  go, 
Bringing  surprise  of  sudden  bliss  and  pain, 

The  flush  of  joy  and  sorrow’s  mist  and  rain. 

New  sympathies  put  forth,  and  bring  a sense 
Of  larger  being,  and  beyond  the  fence 


SHAKESPEARE . 


311 


That  closes  self,  they  reach,  and  interlace 
The  life  of  each  with  that  of  all  the  race. 

Present  is  he,  though  viewless  to  the  eyes, 

With  life  that  grows  and  force  that  multiplies, 

And  with  the  highest  function,  by  whose  word 
The  living  world  continues  to  be  stirred, 

Thrilled,  and  instructed.  He  abides  a power, 

A presence,  and  a glory.  Hour  by  hour 
The  circle  widens  which  his  magic  sways, 

And  larger  numbers  listen  as  the  days 
Bring  deeper  insight.  What  can  subtly  touch 
The  inmost  of  our  being  with  as  much 
Of  light  and  music,  what  so  lull  and  wake 
The  gusts  of  passion,  what  so  move  and  shake 
The  student  in  his  closet,  or  the  crowd 
That  only  knows  to  sob  or  laugh  aloud, 

As  Shakespeare’s  utterance?  Not  the  nearest  friend 
Beads  us  so  well,  or  speaks  the  words  that  send 
Such  quickening  influence  with  them  and  reveal 
Self  unto  Self.  Whate’er  we  think  or  feel, 

Desire  or  dread,  or  vaguely  see  in  dreams, 

Finds  voice  and  language;  and  the  fiction  seems 
More  real  than  the  forms  we  daily  meet, 

And  more  abiding,  as  the  hours  repeat 


312 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Life’s  marvellous  story.  ’T  is  by  thought  and  deed, 
In  book,  art,  institution,  code,  and  creed, 

The  Mightiest  of  the  past  are  present  still, 

And  live,  and  work.  Wisdom  and  force  of  will 
Escape  the  stroke  that  buries  other  things. 

By  written  word,  lo,  Thought  has  taken  wings 
To  soar  the  world  and  outfly  all  the  years, 

And  bear  abroad  the  treasure  that  endears 
The  Days  unto  each  other.  Rule  and  law, 

The  close-packed  knowledge  which  the  Sages  draw 
From  large  experience,  will  not  pass  to  naught. 

The  priceless  trophies  that  the  years  have  brought 
To  dower  the  race  with,  grow  and  multiply 
Their  force  and  worth,  nor  will  consent  to  die. 
Across  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  Time  and  Space 
The  Ages  call,  and  speak  as  face  to  face. 

Although  the  clouds  and  misty  pomp  have  gone, 
We  hear  the  music  of  the  early  dawn; 

Remote  conditions  touch  and  grow  acquaint 
Each  with  the  other;  colors  strong  or  faint, 

And  outlines  sharp  or  vague  are  caught  and  fixed 
Where  naught  may  fade  them.  Good  and  ill  commixed, 
Yet  with  distinct  and  opposite  force,  we  find 
Shaping  the  worlds  of  matter  and  of  mind. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


313 


Above  the  narrow  reach  of  tribe  and  clan 
We  rise,  at  last,  to  embrace  the  world  and  man, 
And  bind  together  what  the  race  has  done, 

As  product  of  a nature  that  is  one, 

Common,  and  constant,  under  every  guise. 

The  thought,  that  brings  the  tear-drop  to  our  eyes, 
Or  color  to  our  cheeks,  hath  brought  the  same 
Swift  gush  of  pity,  or  the  roseate  flame, 

To  eyes  long  quenched  in  night,  or  cheeks  whose  glow 
Hath  paled  to  ashes  countless  years  ago. 

Beneath  all  transformations,  masks  of  change, 

Sport  of  conditions,  and  the  play  and  range 
Of  forces  hedged  about  by  Birth  and  Death, 

We  find  one  human  heart,  one  common  breath, 

One  changeless  law  presiding  over  all, 

And  levelling  high  with  low  and  great  with  small. 

Next  to  the  personal  presence,  is  the  book 
That  clearly  speaks  the  mind.  Where  shall  we  look 
For  other  work  that  keeps  so  well  alive 
The  power  of  him  who  wrought  it,  and  shall  thrive 
Defying  Time  and  Change?  Fair  and  compact, 
Behold  the  product  of  the  highest  act, 

Thought  put  to  shape,  most  dainty,  subtle,  rare, 

The  man  himself  in  his  best  moods  is  there. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


314 

Yet  only  as  creator  Shakespeare  shows 

His  personal  force.  His  quickening  genius  throws 

Life  into  countless  forms,  and  disappears 

Within  the  offspring  that  through  all  the  years 

Shall  make  him  known.  What  most  sublime  neglect 

Of  self  and  fame,  the  scholar  may  detect 

In  all  he  wrote,  and  in  the  life  he  led. 

Careless  to  gather  what  the  boughs  had  shed 
Of  fruit  immortal,  he  could  calmly  wait 
The  garnering  of  the  Ages;  doubly  great 
In  what  he  did,  and  then  cared  not  to  do: 

The  miracle  he  wrought,  he  scarcely  knew 
To  be  a wonder,  so  profound  and  calm 
His  power  and  its  use.  Learning  may  cram 
The  mind  with  facts,  and  formal  rules  may  reach 
An  outward  order;  and  the  schools  may  teach 
Much  that  is  worth  the  knowing;  but  no  rules, 

No  wit  nor  wisdom  found  in  all  the  schools, 

With  help  of  books  and  passport  of  degrees, 

Can  compass  that  which  Genius  does  with  ease. 
What  need  to  question  Shakespeare’s  learning  when, 
Transcending  books,  he  read  the  world  of  men, 

And  reached  results,  by  intuition’s  glance, 

Where  reason  halts  its  patient,  slow  advance? 


SHAKESPEARE. 


315 


But  there  are  faults,  huge  blemishes  and  blots 
Across  the  splendor.  So  the  sun  has  spots 
That  show  the  blacker  for  the  brightness  near, 

And  larger  than  the  earth.  They  must  appear 
Upon  the  same  vast  scale  as  marks  the  blaze 
That  warms  and  quickens  all,  and  blinds  the  gaze 
Of  too  direct  a vision.  Shall  we  pass 
Judgment  upon  the  sun  through  bits  of  glass 
That  we  have  smoked  above  the  sorry  lamps 
Of  shallow  learning?  When  the  Night  encamps 
In  her  blue  tent,  the  earth  grows  dull  and  cold, 
Till  the  dawn  comes  and  fills  the  east  with  gold, 
Ushering  the  sun.  Then  every  bush  and  brake 
Rings  out  with  music;  joy  and  song  awake 
To  greet  his  presence.  As  he  rises  higher, 

The  drops  of  dew  are  charioted  in  fire 

Back  to  the  viewless  heaven  whence  they  came; 

The  mists  and  clouds  are  fringed  and  lit  with  flame, 
And  every  flowering  bush  and  branching  spray 
Leans  toward  the  light  and  welcomes  in  the  day. 
The  world  rejoices,  warms,  and  gleams,  and  glows, 
Nor  cares  for  all  the  spots  which  Science  shows 
On  the  vast  orb  whose  presence  puts  to  flight 
The  blinking  owls  that  cannot  bear  his  light. 


316 


SHAKESPEARE. 


’T  was  great  to  build,  as  the  old  builders  wrought, 
Vast  walls  for  worship,  spires  for  climbing  thought, 
And  shafts  of  lightsome  grace.  And  no  less  great 
Was  it  when  sculptor’s  touch  could  animate 
The  marble  block,  and  make  its  pallor  show 
A beauty  fair  and  deathless.  And  we  grow 
Stricken  with  wonder  when  the  rounded  form 
Starts  from  the  .canvas,  living,  breathing,  warm, 
Limbs  full  of  action  caught  in  such  arrest 
That  not  a grace  is  prisoned;  lips  and  breast 
Whose  touch  were  rapture ; eyes  whose  radiant  light 
Translates  the  soul  into  the  sense  of  sight. 

Nor  feel  we  charm  of  art  a whit  the  less, 

When  Music  aids  our  passions  to  express 
Their  varying  phase  and  fulness.  But  no  stone 
Built  into  temple,  or  in  which  is  thrown 
The  soul  of  Beauty ; and  no  touch  of  brush 
That  taught  the  canvas  how  to  breathe  and  blush  ; 
No  skill  to  strike  the  chord,  and  tune  the  throat 
To  every  rise  and  fall  and  changing  note 
Of  most  harmonious  sweetness,  can  so  take 
The  mind  with  thrall  of  pleasure,  or  awake 
The  sense  of  beauty,  grace,  and  power,  as  when, 
Beneath  the  trace  of  Poet’s  marvellous  pen, 


SHAKESPEARE. 


317 


Speech,  matched  with  thought  and  music,  shows  com- 
pact 

Our  life  in  action,  purpose  in  the  act, 

Morals  and  manners,  fashions  of  a day, 

And  truths  whose  force  shall  never  pass  away. 
Below  the  varying  harmony  that ’s  blown 
So  rich  and  full,  we  hear  the  undertone, 

How  softly  sweet,  how  sad,  and  O how  true, 

That  colors  all  the  music  through  and  through, 

And  tells  the  transiency  and  shadowiness 
Of  life  itself,  and  hints  the  thoughts  that  press 
For  full  solution,  and  that  lie  beyond 
The  world’s  horizon  and  the  narrow  bound 
Assigned  to  what  is  mortal.  See  the  fair 
And  gorgeous  vision  melt  to  thinnest  air. 

The  form  and  fashion  pass : it  is  enough. 

“ Sleep  rounds  our  little  life.  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of.”  Lo,  across  the  stage 
What  masks  and  shadows  flit!  Yet  as  we  gauge 
The  littleness  of  life,  we  still  descry 
Something  beyond  the  reach  of  earth  and  sky, 
Wherein  we  have  a portion  that  can  make 
The  guilty  tremble  and  the  sleeper  wake. 

27  * 


318 


SHA  KESPEARE. 


The  curtain  rises.  Here  we  act  to-day; 

The  world  our  stage  and  life  itself  the  play, 

Mirth  mixed  with  sadness,  laughter  blent  with  tears, 
Till,  beckoning  us,  a spectral  form  appears ; — 

Ring  down  the  curtain,  let  the  lights  be  blown, 
Death  ends  the  scene,  and  all  is  overthrown. 

The  days  withdraw  their  gifts ; yet  but  in  part. 
They  leave  us  much,  the  priceless  things  of  Art, 
Trophies  of  wisdom.  What  is  worthiest,  best, 

Still  stays  with  us.  Time  buries  all  the  rest 
In  kind  Oblivion,  and  with  mould  and  moss 
Hides  their  decay,  and  blunts  the  edge  of  loss. 

Its  noblest  works  are  like  the  soul,  and  show 
Immortal  vigor;  they  shall  live  and  grow, 

Gathering  new  power  and  beauty,  and  shall  deck 
Themselves  more  richly  from  the  dust  and  wreck 
Of  frailer  things,  which  serve  at  once  as  foil 
For  a perennial  strength,  and  as  the  soil 
Wherein  to  grow  and  flourish.  Thus  we  gain 
Somewhat  from  loss.  The  matchless  forms  remain 
With  larger  space,  and  gather  day  by  day 
Fresh  force  from  that  which  fades  and  falls  away. 
Shakespeare  hath  written  and  our  life  is  more, 

Its  meaning  fuller,  richer  than  before; 


SHAKESPEARE. 


319 


The  tree  of  Knowledge  strikes  a deeper  root; 

On  broader  branches  ripens  rarer  fruit 
Than  gleamed  of  old  upon  the  fabled  trees 
Of  dragon-guarded,  fair  Hesperides. 

We  know  ourselves  the  better,  feel  within 
New  pulses  stir  that  make  us  all  akin. 

The  Past  is  shown  so  well  that  therein  we 
Behold  the  Present,  find  what  is  to  be, 

Discern  the  process  in  the  arrested  state, 

The  laws  of  growth,  the  changes  that  await 
Decay  and  death,  and  read,  by  glimpse,  the  end 
Toward  which  the  shifting  movements  point  and  tend. 
Gleams  of  the  Possible  break  as  the  dawn 
Of  a new  World  upon  us;  we  are  drawn 
By  shapes  and  forces  that  take  form  and  rise 
Strong,  clear,  and  palpable  before  our  eyes, 

With  voice  and  language  wherein  more  we  find 
As  time  and  wisdom  give  the  grasp  of  mind 
To  compass  larger  meaning.  Year  by  year 
Life’s  wonder  breaks  upon  us.  There  appear 
New  limits,  as  we  reach  at  last  the  shore, 

And  hear  the  ceaseless  trouble  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  sway  to  touch  of  moon  and  sun, 

And  dash  to  foam,  although  the  storm  is  done. 


320 


SHAKESPEARE. 


The  deep  below  is  stirred  by  starry  height, 

And,  as  we  gaze,  new  wonders  meet  the  sight, 
Shores  still  untrodden,  depths  unfathomed  still, 
Where  Ocean  heaves  and  moans,  instead  of  rill 
That  babbled  o’er  the  shallows  of  our  Youth. 
Beyond  our  plummet  Shakespeare  flashes  truth 
On  cords  electric,  that  have  force  to  run 
Girdling  the  Earth  and  binding  man  in  One. 

The  mortal  part  hath  perished.  Avon  flows 
Where  Shakespeare  sleeps  in  undisturbed  repose. 
The  years  have  vanished,  centuries  have  sped 
Since  Death  has  housed  him  with  the  Mighty  Dead 
But  Death  has  failed  to  strike  his  music  dumb. 

As  Time  moves  on,  the  Echoes  go  and  come 
More  resonant  and  sweeter.  By  the  power 
With  which  he  stirs  and  sways  the  present  hour, 
By  what  of  life  his  soul  within  us  wakes, 

By  what  of  order,  beauty,  strength,  he  makes 
Present  and  permanent  in  us,  by  the  light 
Shed  on  the  world,  and  by  the  sense  of  sight 
Quickened  and  trained  to  apprehend  the  grace 
Unseen  before,  by  every  silent  space 
That  he  hath  filled  with  deathless  melody, 

He  lives  in  us,  and  lordly  place  hath  he. 


SHAKESPEARE . 


321 


Present  he  is,  as  fountain  and  far  source, 

And  shares  the  Being  he  doth  reinforce 
From  his  exhaustless  fulness.  What  though  we, 

In  all  the  Future,  scarce  may  hope  to  see 
His  heir  or  rival,  we  are  blest  in  this, 

That  having  him  is  a perpetual  bliss. 

It  is  enough  if  one  such  man  appears, 

The  matchless  growth  of  thrice  a thousand  years, 

To  endow  the  Race  with  riches  that  shall  last 
When  thrice  three  thousand  more  have  come  and  past. 

V 


322 


IF  ANY  SONG. 


IF  ANY  SONG. 

TF  any  song  that  I have  sung, 

Has  thrilled  a pulse  or  stirred  a tear; 
If  any  thought  has  found  a tongue 
To  make  some  dearness  doubly  dear; 

Then  am  I even  more  than  blest, 

And  henceforth  happy  to  be  mute ; 
Content,  content,  I sink  to  rest, 

And  Silence  now  unstrings  the  lute. 


/ ' 


•4 


.i 


/ 


. 


